
Class 



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CDHRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



THE STANDARD-BEARERS 







Then the Windows spoke {page 11) 



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The 
standard-bearers 

TRUE STORIES OF HEROES OF 
LAW AND ORDER 

BY KATHERINE MAYO 

Author of Justice to All 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 
CAPTAIN LOUIS KEENE / 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

The Riverside Press Cambridge 
1918 



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COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY 

COPYRIGHT, 1918, BY KATHERINE MAYO 



ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



Published June iqi8 



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JUN 24 1918 • 


GI.A497876 


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TO 

THE YOUNG MEN OF THE NATION 

HEIRS TO A NOBLE WAR 



FOREWORD 

IN the foreword of an earlier book, Justice to All, I 
have told the story of the dastardly murder and 
heroic death of Samuel Howell, carpenter, ambushed 
by robbers on a lonely country road in the State of 
New York. In the book itself I have tried to tell the 
story, equally heroic, of the Pennsylvania State Police. 

The slaying of that fine young American laboring 
man, too true of heart to buy his life with his honor, 
unmasked once more an old and shameful fact — 
that the Empire State connived at such tragedies — 
accepted them without feeling, without action, and 
without remark. The trade of robber and murderer, 
so long as exercised upon the poor, was practically a 
snug and safe employment in rural New York. 

The rich, like lords of feudal castles, lived in their 
big houses surrounded by their own garrisons of 
servants and guards. But those of less estate, the 
farmers, the laborers, the women and girl-children in 
small isolated homes, or traversing lonely roads as 
perforce they must, — in a word, all the scattered 
population of the countryside, — were stolidly ignored 
by the one power morally responsible for their safety 
and their peace. The very government that enacted 
the laws treated its own enactments as "scraps of 
paper." The criminal world, in consequence, remained 
at perfect liberty to do the same. 

The bitter outrage of this truth, seen at short range 



viii FOREWORD 

and poignantly realized, drove me for light and coun- 
sel to the only State in the Union on whose name no 
kindred blot appeared. At every source and from 
many and varied standpoints, I studied the Penn- 
sylvania State Police, carefully checking both facts 
and figures as I moved along the field. 

Then, at last, because no working account of the 
subject already existed in print, and in order to lay 
the plain facts in available shape before the people of 
New York and of the Union, I wrote Justice to All, 
the story of the Pennsylvania State Police. 

The purpose of that book exacted condensation 
and the cutting-out of much incident that might have 
served to bring its meaning home. Out of the mass of 
material thus set apart have been taken the narra- 
tives that form this present volume. 

It has been a difficult and unwelcome task to choose, 
from so large a sheaf, what to take and what to leave. 
The incidents here related are chosen, not because 
they stand out from the rest, but just, on the con- 
trary, because they fairly illustrate the common daily 
round of the Pennsylvania Force. Space alone gov- 
erns their number. For there is not one seasoned man 
in the entire Squadron who has not performed many 
an act of valor and of service equal in quality to those 
recounted here. 

In every narrative the real names of the Troopers 
are given. In every instance but one, the actual 
names of localities appear. In several instances I 
have changed the names of criminals at the request 
of the State Police themselves, whose creed it is to 
temper justice with mercy, and to give the worst 



FOREWORD ix 

man every chance to mend. Again, in the case of 
innocent citizens and of the victims of crime, fictitious 
names have sometimes been used, out of regard for 
personal feelings. 

Finally, I have called this book The Standard- 
Bearers, because the State Police idea is now spread- 
ing rapidly over the Union, and because to Pennsyl- 
vania only the Union owes this priceless good; because 
it was to the Pennsylvania Force only, under the mag- 
nificent leadership of Colonel John C. Groome, that 
the people of New York looked for inspiration when 
they legislated, last year, for their own State Police; 
because it was to the unchallengeable record, to the 
unsurpassable achievements of our own true Ameri- 
can boys in our own Keystone State, and not to any 
foreign body whatsoever, however fine, that the peo- 
ple, the Governor, and the Legislature of New York 
looked for their faith and their hope. 

The Pennsylvania State Police, during all the years 
of its existence, has been attacked, vilified, slan- 
dered with an unscrupulous venom that has known 
neither bounds nor truth nor shame. Every treacher- 
ous, mean, and disloyal element, under many and 
curious guises, has sapped and mined and openly or 
secretly fought to cripple its work and to diminish 
or to blacken its fame. But the Pennsylvania State 
Police has needed no defense but its own record, un- 
swervingly built through the days and years. Stead- 
fastly led, steadfastly advancing with one heart and 
one purpose, it has pursued its lofty ideal undisturbed 
and unconfused. 

Now we see the result — a slow growth like all great 



x FOREWORD 

permanent structures of good. Watered with its own 
heart-blood, strengthened with the iron of discipline 
and of hardship, knit together by the bonds of heroic 
sacrifice rendered as a matter of course, without 
grudging or flinching, and received equally as a mat- 
ter of course, without thanks and without reward, 
the Pennsylvania State Police to-day triumphantly 
leads the Union. 

For any and every other commonwealth entering 
the field, the Pennsylvania State Police must be the 
Standard-Bearers. We do but honor ourselves in ac- 
knowledging it. Let us watch that standard where they 
still carry it far in the van. Let us beseech for all our 
young forces, whether now in existence or soon to be 
born, true understanding, high ambition, perfect stead- 
fastness, endurance, strength, nobility of mind and 
purpose, faithfully to follow that oriflamme ahead. 

It is no easy task — no goal to be soon or lightly 
gained. But in so far as through stern years of dis- 
cipline, devotion, and sacrifice they may win grace 
and strength to approach it, just so far will they 
make good. 

K. M. 

Bedford Hii^ls, N.Y. 
April, 1918 



CONTENTS 

I. The Honor of the Force 1 

II. "D" Troop Tidies up 33 

III. Babe 56 

IV. Big Mine Run 66 

V. The Hungry Rope 126 

VI. Israel Drake 157 

VII. The Coon-Hunters 179 

VIII. The Farmers' Battle 197 

IX. Cherry Valley 217 

X. The Captain of Troop "A" . . . .232 

XI. According to Code 256 

XII. John G 266 

XIII. Hot Weather 275 

XIV. Get your Man 289 

XV. No Story at all 304 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Then the Windows spoke .... Frontispiece 

Rode straight down Helltown's Main Street . 38 

Thrust his Soft Nose over Corporal Metcalf's 
Shoulder 64 

Maria sat in her Cell, nursing her Baby . . 100 

"i shall defend the prisoner of the state" . 146 

Again he held his Candle low 204 

"you men have to make good in that country" . 218 

The Sergeant picked him up in his Arms and 
carried him downstairs ...... 



THE STANDARD-BEARERS 
i 

THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 

DECEMBER 15, 1905, was the birthday of the 
Pennsylvania State Police. On that day the men 
chosen to compose the new Force, coming from the 
four quarters of the United States, assembled at the 
four Troop stations and began their training. 

Officers and men alike were strangers to each other, 
and strangers to the work that they were organized to 
perform. They had everything to learn, from the 
principles and details of their new profession to the 
amount of confidence that they could place in their 
comrades-in-arms. They had an immense task before 
them — two hundred and twenty-eight of them were 
to police the whole rural State — and they had an 
incredulous or hostile public opinion to conquer by 
high deserts. 

Of one thing alone they were sure — their deep 
respect for their squadron commander, Major John C. 
Groome. They had yet to test him by time and ex- 
perience — they had yet to learn with what gallant 
courage and high integrity, with what cloudless loyalty, 
what absolute justice, what stern soldierly discipline, 
and what great-hearted sympathy he would both lead 
and support his men. But each one of them had 



2 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

received his electric first impression, each man had 
guessed those truths that time would prove. Each 
man had felt his heart thrill and his spirit rise to its 
best, when the Major, in accepting him as a recruit, had 
told him the object and standard of the new Force. 

And then each man, even as he cast a questioning 
eye upon his unknown mates, said in his own heart 
that he himself in any case would do his level best 
"to make good for the Major." 

In the first few days of association, however, a 
stout tie had connected them almost all. Ninety per 
cent of the men were old soldiers, sailors or marines, 
honorably discharged, "character excellent," from the 
United States service. If they had not served in the 
same regiment, or on the same ship, they had shared 
the same campaigns, the same life, the same stand- 
ards and discipline. And each one knew what it costs 
to make a man. 

Four stiff months they put in, the four Troops 
in their several barracks, studying hard, before the 
Major would let them take the field. They must know 
the law, before attempting to execute it. With their 
scanty numbers and their great territory, they would 
usually be very far from any source of sound legal ad- 
vice when moments for action came. And to build up 
the high prestige by which alone so small a force could 
operate successfully, they must never be in the wrong. 

It meant stiff grinding. It has meant continued 
study ever since, by means of which the older Troop- 
ers of the Force are to-day good criminal lawyers, while 
some have actually become attorneys and counsellors 
at law. 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 3 

It has meant stiff discipline, too, — the stiff est, — 
and an active standard of morals probably unequalled 
in any other organization. The Pennsylvania State 
Police has no guard-house and knows no second 
offense. And the most relentless guardians of its 
Spartan rule are the old Troopers themselves. Fel- 
lowship in that picked body is a privilege, in their es- 
teem, to be earned with single-hearted devotion and 
sacrifice, to be defended in its honor as a gem beyond 
price. They have advanced their high mark of achieve- 
ment, notch by notch, as opportunity has opened to 
their eager eyes. They have never let it fall or suffer 
stain. Their enemies are their honor, their friends are 
all honest folk who know them, their proud and ready 
celebrants are the first men in the land. 

So "D" Troop, quartered at Punxsutawney, was 
pegging away like the rest, impatient to get into 
service. Even from its present confinement it could 
see that work in plenty awaited it, and it had not 
been a fortnight assembled when a special word fanned 
its fires. 

That word was brought into barracks by First 
Sergeant Lumb. First Sergeant Lumb had been hav- 
ing a little friendly talk with Punxsutawney's Chief 
of Police. 

"Sergeant," said the Chief, "here is a fact that 
one day may be useful to you: Half the bad trouble 
in this whole region is hatched just seven miles from 
this very town. On the map the place is called 
Florenza, but we folks all say 'Florence' — just 
Florence, and a regular hotbed of mischief it is. 



4 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

If I could ever have got any one to stand behind me 
I would have attacked it long ago. But they're all 
afraid. Now, the next time I cross its tracks I shall 
call on you for help. But if you meet trouble first, 
remember what I have said: Florence is the very root 
of deviltry." 

Time passed. The four Troops took the field, each 
in its own quarter, each impatient to make its own 
record the best in the Squadron. Not yet did their 
countrysides flood them with appeals for help in every 
sort of difficulty, as presently they would come to do; 
but their hands were full, nevertheless. And in the 
scanty leisure hours the men still sought their com- 
mon object. 

So came one Sunday afternoon, September 2, 1906. 
The day was glorious — hot and fine — such a day as 
must surely have tempted men off duty to go a-gam- 
bolling. Sergeant Logan was off duty, but to him the 
freedom merely suggested an extra chance to pros- 
pect for work. Like the rest of the Force, he was 
"taking a plunge wherever he saw water," — hunting 
for hard jobs and honors. 

Now, it happened that within the past ten days 
several murderous cutting affrays had occurred in the 
general vicinity of Punxsutawney. The assailants 
were unknown except to their victims, who refused 
to reveal their identity for fear of worse to come. 
But the victims themselves were not of the stripe that 
turns the other cheek, and in all likelihood their adver- 
saries even now were hidden near by, nursing injuries. 

So Sergeant Logan, saying nothing to any one, 
changed into civilian dress and started. 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE* 5 

"I'll take a look into that Florence," said he to 
himself. "It might give a clue." 

He boarded a trolley for Anita, a hamlet about a 
mile distant from the village of ill renown. At Anita 
he debarked — it was then three o'clock — and pro- 
ceeded leisurely to complete the trip on foot. As he 
walked, he debated ways and means. 

"I'll call on the doctor," he concluded. "If any 
one living in the place has been much hurt, that doc- 
tor, most likely, will have treated the wounds." 

Florence was a little mining town of about two 
hundred inhabitants. The larger part of the popula- 
tion was Austrian, with some mingling of Italians. 
Aside from these were the mine bosses, Welsh or 
Irish, and the company officials, the store-keeper, the 
doctor, and a few others. . i 

Dr. Bodenhorn lived on the main street, a steep in- 
cline. Diagonally above, on the opposite side from 
his cottage, stood the power-house. Then, higher up, 
came the railroad track, crossing the street at right 
angles. And beyond, again, the street still climbed, 
with detached stores and dwellings on either side. 

At a little after four o'clock Dr. Bodenhorn and 
Sergeant Logan sat on the doctor's front veranda, 
talking over the ways of the world. 

"Have you had any cases of cutting or wounding 
to attend, within the last week or so?" the Sergeant 
asked. 

"No," answered the doctor; "for a wonder I have n't. 
But I'll tell you something in your own line: Do you 
see that two-storied wooden building up yonder just 
across the railroad track from the power-house? Well, 



6 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

that building is the resort of the very worst char- 
acters in this part of the State, and they hold a regu- 
lar meeting there every Sunday afternoon. If you 
are ever in search of any particular blackguard — 
Hi! Look at that! What are they up to now?" 

Out from the door of the building came pouring a 
crowd of men, some thirty-five in number, surround- 
ing two who seemed to be locked in a desperate fight. 

Waiting only a moment to observe, the Sergeant 
dashed up the road, shoved his way through the 
crowd, tore the two combatants apart, and placed 
one under arrest. As he did so, he recognized in the 
second brawler a man named Walsach, charged with 
murder and wanted by the police. But before he 
could lay hands upon the second man, the crowd 
surged in between, and Walsach ran back into the 
house whence all had emerged, some twenty feet 
away. 

Not yet did the Sergeant guess that the whole af- 
fair was arranged — that the gang had recognized 
him for a State Police officer as he sat on the doctor's 
porch, and had hastily plotted a trap to kill him forth- 
with. He swallowed the bait whole. 

Dragging his prisoner with him across the street to 
the house door, Logan gripped him with his left hand 
while he grasped the doorknob with his right, and 
stepped over the threshold. As he did so, and while his 
hand was yet on the knob, Walsach the murderer, 
lurking within, leaped at him with stiletto upraised. 
Logan jumped to the right as far as the door-casing 
would permit. The blade passed between his coat 
and his shirt, till the hilt struck on his ribs. Not 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 7 

daring a second blow, the murderer dropped his dag- 
ger, sprang out of the door and away. 

Sergeant Logan's one thought, now, was to secure 
the fugitive, because of his record of crime. So he 
dropped his comparatively unimportant prisoner, 
pulled out his revolver, and started on the run after 
his man. 

As he turned the east corner of the house, one of 
the many bystanders now collected called out that 
Walsach was circling around the building behind him, 
armed with a Winchester rifle. Sergeant Logan in- 
stantly faced about and retraced his steps to meet 
the attack. 

As he turned the corner again, Walsach fired. His 
aim was high. The Sergeant dropped to his left 
knee, his right side to the criminal, trying to offer as 
small a target as possible. For as long as it takes to 
empty a Winchester the two had it, give and take, 
at a distance of about fifty feet. Then Walsach 
ran back into the house, bleeding, followed by his 
gang. 

As for Sergeant Logan, for the second time that 
day it seemed that his life was charmed. The only 
bullet that touched him had passed into the tip of his 
left shoe, under the toes, and out through the sole, 
making no wound whatever. 

"Where's the nearest telephone?" called the Ser- 
geant to the crowd. 

"Power-house," shouted some not unfriendly voice. 

"Will some of you watch the place for a moment?" 

"All right. Goon." 

Sergeant Logan ran to the power-house, just across 



8 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

the railroad track, called up Barracks, and stated his 
case. 

"Can you send out three or four men?" he asked 
First Sergeant Lumb. "Walsach is here, with a bad 
crowd around him. I've had difficulty already — 
can't make the arrest alone." 

Sergeant Lumb banged the receiver into the hook, 
and flung open the day-room door. 

"Chambers — Henry — Mullen — Mcllvain — 
Koch," said he, choosing from the stalwart uniformed 
figures present. "You five men have seven minutes to 
get the next trolley. Beat it to Florence." 

As the trolley drew in at the foot of the main street 
of Florence, a crowd of considerable size was gathered 
around the station, awaiting its arrival, and the as- 
pect of that crowd was not good. Leering, snarling 
faces showed all through it, and the mass, quite 
clearly, would welcome a chance to break loose. 

"Boys," said Chambers, "we are up against it. 
Don't all get out of the same end of the car." 

Henry and Chambers left by the front platform. 
As Chambers stepped down, he saw a man near him 
drawing a pistol. With one quick blow he knocked 
that man down. With another he felled a second who 
was reaching for his pocket. An instant more and he 
had their two guns. 

"Take these fellows, Koch," said he. 

Private Koch snapped handcuffs on the pair. 

"Mcllvain and Koch, take charge of the prisoners," 
ordered Chambers, who led the detail. "Come on, 
men." 

As they shoved their way uphill through the crowd, 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 9 

it was determined that as they reached the power- 
house Koch should fall out, with the prisoners, and 
hold them there under guard while the four others 
proceeded straight on to the building into which Lo- 
gan's assailant had fled. A bystander pointed out 
the place. More they had no need to know. 

The house was a frame structure of two stories with 
a peaked roof. A stone foundation raised its first 
story about three feet from the street level. This 
ground floor, on the side facing the power-house and 
the railroad track, had no windows at all and but one 
door. Abovestairs were windows, but their roller cur- 
tains were pulled almost down. No sign of life was 
anywhere visible. 

The four Troopers pushed ahead, beyond the power- 
house and up the steep road to the railroad crossing, 
Henry leading, Chambers at his heels, then Mullen, 
then Mcllvain. At a point about thirty-five feet dis- 
tant from the house, they veered to the right, toward 
the door. On the instant a volley rang out from the 
curtained windows of the upper story. A bullet 
grazed Chambers's head and tore his hat away. Henry 
dropped in a heap where it caught him. 

Now, Henry was Chambers's chosen friend. The 
first had been a corporal of United States Marines, 
while the second had seen long service in the Navy, 
quitting as coxswain, "character excellent." The 
two now called themselves "shipmates," swapped 
man-o'-war's-men's yarns, bunked side by side, worked 
together whenever they could, loved each other. And 
Chambers was only just twenty-five years old. 

But Chambers had been bred in a stern school — the 



10 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

school of warfare and battle. To see a friend fall bleed- 
ing at his feet was no new sight to him. To have paused, 
to have turned back on that account, would have been 
not only new but unthinkable. So, following his 
fighter's instinct, without one look aside, he dashed 
at the house whence the volley had come, as he would 
have charged an enemy battery. 

Mullen, late corporal of Coast Artillery, charged after 
him, but, under a second volley, he, too, dropped, with 
a bullet through the groin, while Mcllvain slid to cover. 

Chambers, meantime, had reached the house. 
Chambers was born to his calling. Odds or danger 
meant nothing to him — or, more exactly, they acted 
as spurs. His one passion was to win through — to 
do the work — to make good. 

He tried the door, that single first-floor opening on 
the side whence the volleys had come. The door was 
solidly blocked — could be opened only by bursting 
it in. And with the discovery came another thought. 
Under its inspiration the Trooper ran around the 
house, with the butt of his revolver smashing the lower 
windows on the other sides, in order to reach the cur- 
tains within. These he jerked off their rollers, lest later 
they serve to screen the murderous fire of gunmen, as 
already their like were doing above. 

"Now," he said to himself, "I'll go back and ram 
that door." 

But the move brought him near to the body of his 
friend. For the first time he consciously beheld that 
tragic sight. Blood was flowing from Henry's mouth. 
He had been shot, not once, but several times, and his 
attitude showed the agony he had endured. 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 11 

An instant the young sailor paused, staring his heart 
away. A deathly silence prevailed in the place. The 
whole town might have been holding its breath. The 
upper windows, with their dropped curtains, gazed 
down blank, secret, deadly, like heavy-lidded Sphynx's 
eyes. Chambers took a step forward. 

Then some unknown, strained to the snapping 
point, screamed out: "Don't do it! Don't! They'll 
kill you!" 

"I'm going to get him," Chambers said, in an odd 
flat voice, behind his teeth. Every word carried, as 
though the scene had been a stage. 

"You'll stay where you are!" shouted Logan from 
the power-house. "Can't you see he'll be dead in a 
minute?" 

Just then, with a last convulsive effort, Henry 
moved — rolled over on his side. And his voice, al- 
ready faint as of one far distant on a long journey, 
came homing back to his friend : — 

"Dick! — Dick! — Are you going to leave me 
here?" 

Nothing could have held the sailor then. 

"Jack!" he called, and the yearning of his cry 
reached up to the Gates through which his mate was 
already passing. "Jack I Oh, wait ! I 'm coming, boy ! " 

Thrusting his revolver into its holster, he dashed 
into the open, with never a thought for his own life. 
He reached Henry's side. The windows remained 
blind and dumb. He turned and faced them squarely, 
hands high above his head to make his purpose clear. 
Then the windows spoke! 

Chambers staggered — pulled himself together, 



n THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

reached for his gun, with jaws tight set and with eyes 
seeking the enemy. He must get one, before he went 
— just one. A sheet of blood flowed over his face like 
a veil. The revolver slipped and slid from his grasp. 
Slowly, slowly he crumpled down by his dead com- 
rade's side. 

"Chambers!" called Logan; "have they killed you, 
man?" 

A faint movement stirred the grey heap by Hen- 
ry's side. 

"They have not!" came back the answer, stiff and 
defiant, out of the wrecked and bleeding head. 

"Can you crawl?" 

"...Yes"... 

There were eleven buckshot wounds in him — three 
through the lungs, three in the head, one through an 
eye, and the rest in the side and abdomen. His uni- 
form was soaked and dripping red. His face was un- 
recognizable. And yet the lad struggled upright, held 
himself there tottering for a moment while with a 
hand he dammed the blood from his one remaining 
eye, and then, having got his bearings, walked off 
down the hill to the doctor's office. 

Meantime Mullen, too, had hauled himself erect 
and, with the dark stream spreading down his thigh, 
had limped to cover. 

No fire from the window pursued the pair. Per- 
haps those behind the curtains would waste no more 
lead on men as good as dead. 

Sergeant Logan watched them go-— saw them 
reach the doctor's house and enter. Then he made for 
the telephone. 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 13 

His first call was to the Punxsutawney hospital, for 
an ambulance; his second was to Barracks, to First 
Sergeant Lumb. 

"Chambers, Henry, and Mullen are shot. Twenty 
or more men, heavily armed, are entrenched in the 
house with Walsach. We're needing help." 

"Coming," answered the First Sergeant. 

Five minutes later Logan was struck with a new 
thought. The impact confounded him. 

"Ass! What if they take the east fork! It will cost 
more lives yet. And now it's too late to get them!" 

At Anita, the road from Punxsutawney splits into 
two branches, one of which, the upper branch, enters 
Florence through its worst section. To come in by 
that route would be to expose the detachment to at- 
tack and would, furthermore, necessitate running the 
gantlet of fire from the infested house, to reach the 
point where Logan and his men were now planted. 

On the other hand, if the detail came in by the sec- 
ond fork, it would avoid all this useless danger, striking 
into the main street of the town below the doctor's 
office, where Logan's men could join it. All the theatre 
of trouble would then be up the hill ahead. 

"I've got to get word to them," groaned Logan. 

He thought of the population of Anita, at the junc- 
tion of the roads. Hopeless. Fancy one of the people 
in those shacks carrying an honest message to officers 
of police! Then he remembered the tavern of the 
place — and its keeper, a Pole. 

"If any of them could be decent about it, he is the 
man," thought Logan, "for he has some property to 
anchor him." 



14 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

So Sergeant Logan called up the "Palace Hotel" 
at Anita, and asked that a reliable person be sta- 
tioned at once at the forks of the Punxsutawney road, 
to deliver to a squad of State Police, about to pass, 
Sergeant Logan's request that they take the lower 
fork into Florence. 

Then Logan hurried down to the doctor's office to 
look after the wounded. Mullen, cool and quiet though 
in great pain, lay as the doctor had placed him after 
applying first aid. 

Chambers, even as he entered the house, had walked 
up to a large oval mirror that hung in the hall, and, 
tearing open his blouse, had begun at once to examine 
his own wounds. Those in his body were flowing inter- 
nally and had scarcely stained his uniform, although 
his shattered head was streaming blood. 

"Oh, come and lie down! " implored a woman of the 
family, her compassion aglow at the grisly spectacle. 

"Tell me where I am shot," persisted Chambers, 
— "and get me a gun. Please try to get me a gun!" 

For it was fixed in his mind to patch himself up 
and rush back into the fight. 

Then the doctor came and led him to a couch. 

"You have about half an hour to live," said the 
doctor. "There is nothing that I can do." 

When Logan saw the men, "We'll wait for no am- 
bulance," said he. 

Then he got two cots, and commandeered the trol- 
ley car that had just arrived. That trolley car, with 
the cots in its aisle, by order made no stops between 
Florence and the Punxsutawney hospital. 

Logan, returning to the power-plant, detached 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 15 

Koch to assist him in watching the garrisoned house 
until the arrival of the reinforcements, while Mc- 
II vain guarded the prisoners. 

The reinforcements were not slow in coming up. 
When Logan's last call reached Barracks many of 
the Troop were scattered over the countryside on 
game protection duty or on regular patrol. Others 
were gone here and there on diverse errands. But the 
trumpets sang out an alarm, and in a very few min- 
utes fourteen Troopers in uniform, led by Sergeants 
Lumb and Marsh, were mounted and off, dashing 
down the road to Florence. Four Troopers more over- 
took them on the way, and they rode as though the 
horses, too, knew all that depended on their speed. 

At Anita, near the Palace Hotel, in the split of the 
road, a dubious-looking Pole stood waving his arms. 

"Take the lower fork!" he screamed. "Mr. Logan, 
he say, 'Take the lower fork!'" 

Lumb eyed the man with strong distrust. 

"Look out you speak the truth," he snapped. "I 
shall hold you to this. If you dare to trick us, you '11 be 
sorry till your dying day!" 

But the expression on the Pole's face supported his 
words. 

"We'll risk it," said Lumb. 

Just twenty minutes from the moment that it 
cleared the Barracks gates, seven miles away, the de- 
tachment galloped into the main street of Florence. 

They tied their lathered and panting horses well 
down the hill, out of the range of fire, leaving a guard 
to protect them. Meanwhile the First Sergeant as- 
sumed command. 



16 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Now, if there had been any doubt as to the fitness 
of First Sergeant Lumb to assume command, a glance 
at his Army record would have settled it. Twelve 
years in the Regular Army it shows, in Cavalry, 
Infantry and Coast Artillery. Discharged sergeant- 
major — of course "character excellent." Service as 
post-instructor; service in the Philippines, in China, 
and at home; twenty-seven battles and engagements; 
a string of official comments, such as "Excellent man 
in the field"; and then medals of sorts, Heaven knows 
how many! 

So, First Sergeant Lumb, having duly assumed 
command, was hearing the status of the case from 
Logan. 

"Well," Lumb declared, as the brief outline con- 
cluded, "there's only one thing to do — do some- 
thing hard and do it quick. You fellows, get around 
here and cover the plant. Put three men in the power- 
house — two at the little windows near the floor, fac- 
ing the place, and the third in the ventilating window 
up aloft. Put a couple of men in that house on the 
other side. Put a man behind that box car on the sid- 
ing. Three more posts; that'll cover it." 

As the stations were planted, fire from the house 
opened with ferocity. The garrison was using rifles 
now, and the practice was excellent. It was as much 
as a man's life was worth to show himself before those 
windows. 

The curtains had been rolled up. Daylight was 
fading. Dusk was near. The rifle-men kept well back 
in the room, man and gun out of sight. No flashes 
were visible at the windows as they fired, but the dim 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 17 

chamber filled with pulses of red glow as the weapons 
cracked and the bullets sang here and there wherever 
a Trooper stirred. 

"It will be dark in a few minutes. This is a des- 
perate situation. I'll have to cut 'cross-lots," said 
Lumb to himself. 

He sent for the keeper of the company store. "Who 
is in that place?" he asked. 

The other, a fine old Scot, seemed to read the sol- 
dier's thought. "Nobody," he answered, "but them 
that were better done for." 

"How much dynamite would it take?" 

"About twenty sticks." 

"Will you get it for me?" 

"With the verra best will in the world will I." And 
he strode away on the welcome errand. 

The First Sergeant worked out his idea. He would 
do this thing himself, of course. He could ask no one 
under him to take a risk so great. 

"I'll throw the box in at the door opposite the 
power-house," he thought. "I can be there in about 
ten seconds and with a two-minute fuse I can make 
it. They '11 get me on the way back, most likely — 
but I've a good chance to do my work first, any- 
way." 

So he called Sergeant Marsh, his special friend and 
comrade, and told his plan. "The storekeeper '11 be 
back with the dynamite in a minute," he finished. 
"Good-bye and good luck to you, Bill, if I don't see 
you again." 

But the big Sergeant was thinking. "That's all 
right," he objected, — "sounds mighty fine — but — 



18 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

how if there should be any women and children up there. 
Are you sure?" 

Lumb stared back at him. "No," he said, slowly, 
"of course I'm not sure. How could I be?" 

"I've just heard that the building belongs to a 
woman," pursued Marsh, "and that she lives in it. 
She gets out Sunday afternoons and gives it up to this 
crowd, they say. But who knows for a fact that she's 
not there now?" 

The First Sergeant's plan was already dead. It 
would not do. 

"Then we'll have to charge the place," he mut- 
tered. "God! It's an awful order to give!" 

"I'll lead the charge," said Marsh simply. 

They called for volunteers. Nearly every man 
within hearing stepped out. They selected five. 

"The rest," said the First Sergeant, "will protect 
the rush by directing a fire on the windows. Ready, 
men!" 

A whistle blew. The charge began, Marsh leading. 
As the little squad rushed for the door that was the 
only opening in the lower part of the fighting facade, 
a raking fire burst out from the windows above. 
But its accuracy was disturbed by the covering fusil- 
lade of the remaining Troopers, and the six men cross- 
ing the open space reached the door unscathed. 

Marsh put his great shoulder to it — the bolt gave 
— the panels crashed. Then, like an arrow, Private 
Zehringer drove past his leader and dashed in. 

The hall was small and dark — a mere cubicle to 
contain a boxed staircase black as night within and so 
narrow that two persons could not go up abreast. 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 19 

Zehringer made a jump for those stairs, Marsh close 
on his heels and the rest crowding after. Two steps 
at a time Zehringer mounted, till his eyes topped the 
level of the second-story floor. Then, to the eyes of 
the others, all space suddenly filled with uproar and 
flashing flames, while something heavy, lunging down, 
knocked their legs from under them, so that they 
landed together in a heap at the bottom of the stairs. 

Something large and loose and sagging, sliding 
with them, stayed in a heap after they had scrambled 
up. For a moment sulphurous smoke blinded them. 
As it cleared they saw Zehringer 's body trailing over 
the lower step. Half his skull was shot away. 

To try it again would have been suicidal folly. The 
thing was too simple for the gunmen above — to cover 
the little stair opening with their many rifles, and, at 
the sight of a head, to let all loose. The outcome must 
be always the same. 

Crowded in the entrance hall, the five Troopers 
emptied their revolvers at the ceiling — without ef- 
fect. The bullets could not penetrate the boards. 
Nothing remained for them now but to return to the 
power-house shelter. 

"Here! We must take Zehringer," said a Trooper, 
stooping to lift the body. 

"No," commanded the Sergeant sternly. "Enough 
men have been killed to-day. If there were a breath 
left in him, it would be another thing. Leave him, and 
get away!" 

It was full night now, and the heat of the day had 
exploded in storm. Rain was descending in sheets. 
The men were all wet to the skin, blinded by driving 



20 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

masses of water, thrashed by the hounding wind. 
Those that now gathered in the office of the power- 
house stared at each other with comprehending eyes. 
Their hearts, one and all, were heavy within them — 
heavy for their dead, hot with desire to avenge them, 
in torment to strike. Their nerves ground on edge. 
Inaction was agony. But what should they do? 
What? . . . 

Suddenly, out of the pelting black, over the song 
of the storm, rang a shriek, a howl — and the sound 
of heavy churning up the grade. Like a seal rearing 
out from the midnight ocean, a big motor car stuck 
her glossy nose, dripping, out of the dark. The man 
at the wheel, streaming water from every crease of 
his oil-skins, threw out his clutch, threw on his brake, 
and strode over to the spot where the Troopers stood. 
They knew him for a merchant of Punxsutawney. 

"Heard you were in trouble," he said heartily. 
"Thought I'd run over and see if you wanted me." 

" Want you ! By Jove, I think we do," exclaimed the 
First Sergeant. "Will you take one of my Troopers 
back to Barracks and bring out our carbines?" 

"Watch me! All aboard!" 

The big car turned and whizzed away into the 
smother. When it came roaring back, joy rode with 
it. Thirty carbines it bore, much ammunition, and, as 
the thought of the Punxsutawney man, a great can 
of hot coffee, and sandwiches many and thick. 

"My home people hurried up to do that!" he 
beamed, as he handed out the unexpected provender. 

His name was Des Freas. Later he became burgess 
of his town. And he was a man. 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 21 

The First Sergeant could now arm his command 
with weapons suited to the work. He drew his circle 
of guards more compactly, and he stationed men on 
the roofs. All night long they kept up their fire on the 
house. All night long, with unflagging fury, the house 
replied. The rain came down in a deluge. No such 
storm has been seen in that region since. The Troop- 
ers dripped as if the sea flowed over them, and crashes 
of thunder, with the staggering glare of lightning, 
added confusion to the scene. 

Throughout it all, First Sergeant Lumb steadily 
continued making the round of the posts — "be- 
cause," as he said, "a man might be shot between any 
two minutes, and lie there weltering in the mud and 
the rain, with no one the wiser." 

Once, back in the field, he found a post empty — a 
post where he had placed a mounted man, and so, 
with fear in his heart for what hand or foot might 
touch, he began combing the dark. 

"Is that you, Top?" called a voice from a little 
farther on. 

"What the deuce did you leave your place for, con- 
found you!" The Sergeant snarled like a surly bear, 
because of exceeding gladness. 

"Why — they were kicking up mud between my 
horse's legs with their bullets. Shall I go back?" 

"Oh, stay where you are," growled the Sergeant, 
"and keep awake!" 

Up on the roof just opposite the citadel, Privates 
Thomas Casey and Charles T. Smith were conducting 
a campaign all their own. Private Casey would ma- 
noeuvre his helmet on the end of a stick, from behind 



m THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

the shelter of a chimney. Then, when the big, long 
lightning flashes came, some one of the garrison in 
the house would jump up to fire at that helmet; upon 
which, by the same wild light, Private Smith would 
snipe at the marksman. Then the two Troopers, 
changing roles, would start again. 

At each white flare, faces showed at the windows 
— not always the same faces certainly; the Troop's 
gun practice was better than that. But no one could 
swear to features seen by such mad, fitful gleams. So 
the pair on the roof toiled on in faith and hope rather 
than in certainty. 

Under the lee of a box-car, standing on a siding 
some thirty feet from the spot where Trooper Henry 
fell, Private Kohut spent the night as guard of that 
exit from the scene. 

Whatever may have happened unperceived by him 
during the thick of the tempest, Private Kohut actually 
detected no one passing his way until the first faint 
gray of dawn. Then his straining ears caught a sound 
of cautious moving, and presently he could discern two 
figures stealing down. When they were almost upon 
him, he suddenly stepped across their path. Private 
Kohut was six feet two inches tall and built for service. 

The two snatched at their gun pockets, but their 
gesture was just a thought less quick than that of the 
big Trooper. Seizing each by the scruff of the neck, 
he knocked their heads together with a force that 
dazed them. So he held them, limp and feebly swear- 
ing, until the First Sergeant sent to gather them 
in, and to substitute handcuffs for the weight of 
deadly weapons confiscated. 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 23 

Now, at the time when all this turmoil began, the 
officer in command of "D" Troop, Captain Robin- 
son, was absent from Barracks and at a distance. As 
soon as its serious nature appeared, a report went off 
to him by telephone, and he started for Florence at 
once. At five o'clock in the morning he arrived. 

The scene as he found it was little altered. Henry's 
body lay in the power-house. The rain had stopped. 
The fire from the citadel had died down, but the last 
man who had shown himself before the windows had 
drawn a volley of lead. Many spectators had come 
over from Punxsutawney, most of them armed and 
ready to do their part if required. But the First 
Sergeant was troubled by their presence, and had 
forbidden the further running of trolley cars into or 
through the town, for fear of injury to civilians. As 
for Florence itself, the mass of its population was liv- 
ing up to its repute, evincing a will to attack at any 
moment. 

The Captain heard the First Sergeant's report in 
silence, standing under the lee of the power-house with 
a cluster of Troopers beside him. . . . "In my opinion 
the place should now be dynamited," Lumb con- 
cluded, "and I have the dynamite ready, too." 

"Where?" asked the Captain. 

The First Sergeant, by way of answer, turned and 
reached under the power-house porch. 

"Here," said he, the package in hand. "Twenty 
sticks." 

"Lumb, I'll plant this dynamite myself. But — 
we can't blow the place up with Zehringer's body in 
it—" 



24 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Certainly not, sir." 

"Will you take a chance, and try to get it out?" 

The First Sergeant turned to his friend, big Ser- 
geant Marsh, question in his eyes. Every essay into 
the open that had thus far been made had drawn the 
windows' deadly fire. It was a desperate risk to run. 

Marsh assented silently, with the nod that his 
friends know well. "I'll see you through," it said. 

More or better no man could desire. 

"Order the men well back," said the Captain. 
"Clear a big ring. One stick of dynamite will bring 
down a couple of tons of coal in a mine. We don't 
know what twenty will do here. Have half a dozen 
Troopers cover the windows. When you're ready, 
we'll make the dash together." 

While the brief debate was on, the clustered 
Troopers had listened with eager ears. But at the end 
one among them, Private Lewis Lardin, could bear 
no more. 

"Top!" he cried, breaking forward, the old Army 
nickname for all first sergeants coming unheeded from 
his lips; "oh, Top! Let me take your place. The Troop 
needs you more than me!" 

Tears were running down the boy's face as he 
pleaded with all his honest might. His hand clutched 
his sergeant's sleeve, shaking with the intensity of his 
prayer. But Lumb, for the reason that his own throat 
was choked with emotion roused by this unexpected 
touch, rapped out a gruff reproof. 

"Get back to your place, will you! And stay 
there." 

"Ready?" asked the Captain sharply. 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 25 

"Ready," answered the friends. 

"Come on!" 

The three stepped out — dashed for the citadel. 

The spectators literally dared not breathe as the 
flying figures crossed the open. Then once again they 
saw big Sergeant Marsh put his shoulder to the door 
and drive it in, for the garrison had barred it anew 
since that last fatal entry. 

Marsh disappeared from sight, Lumb after him, 
into the hall. Poor Zehringer's body now lay farther 
down than they had left it, doubled and cramped 
into the little square of the vestibule, and stiff in the 
rigor of death. At first it seemed that they never could 
twist it and work it around and through the door. It 
was unyielding as marble and impossibly bent. And 
with every instant they expected volleys of lead to 
sweep down those stairs. 

At last, with a tremendous pull, Lumb taking the 
body by the legs, Marsh by the elbows, they wrenched 
it free into the doorway, and, so carrying it, ran for 
the power-house with all the speed they could make. 

As they dashed out of the door with their burden, 
Captain Robinson, who had been waiting outside, 
dynamite charge in hand, walked into the vestibule 
they had just quitted, placed his charge, ignited its 
fuse, and coolly paused in the doorway to light his 
cigarette with the remaining flame of the match. Then 
he, too, made for cover. 

With a thick roar, the charge exploded. The build- 
ing trembled and partly fell. 

Now, in a rush, the whole detail swept down upon 
the place, invading every section of it at once. Some 



m THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

of the men dashed into the shop that occupied half 
of the lower story, facing on the farther street. A 
depot of miners' supplies, it proved to be, filled with 
barrels and cans of oil, kegs of powder, and various 
explosives. But not a human being was there. 

Other Troopers ransacked what remained of the 
housekeeping rooms on this lower floor. Here again 
was no creature, but here was an indication of the 
means by which many had escaped during the latter 
part of the siege. 

As has been said, the house stood on a stone founda- 
tion some three feet high. Beneath the floor was no 
cellar, but only an air-space, provided by this base. 
Out from the air-space, on the side toward the railroad 
track and the power-house, passed an arched drain, 
running transversely under the raised railroad bed, 
to open into a culvert at a point beyond the spot where 
Henry fell. On the kitchen floor lay an old short- 
handled axe that had obviously been used to rip up 
the flooring boards and so to give access to the under- 
lying air-space and its drain. 

By this means, in all likelihood, had the two varlets 
whose heads Trooper Kohut knocked together sprung 
up before him out of the shadows. And by this means, 
no doubt, did many another murderer or would-be 
murderer get away into the black asylum of the 
storm. 

While the discovery of the tunnel was being made, 
Sergeant Marsh, followed by other Troopers, had 
driven a bee-line for the fatal stairs. This time no 
sheet of flame received them at the top, and though 
they ransacked the rooms of the second story, they 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 27 

could find but one man there. Half-kneeling still, 
he crouched by the window just as he had been crouch- 
ing to fire when death overtook him in the guise of a 
bullet through his head. But here and in the other 
chambers were many rifles and shotguns and an 
amount of ammunition that would have sufficed for 
many men to withstand a siege of days. 

The house had no attic, but between the peak of 
the roof and the rough board ceiling of the second 
story ran a triangular air-space. In the ceiling of the 
hallway, giving access to this air-space, yawned a 
raw hole of about the size of a man's body, whose fresh 
edges showed that it had but newly been hacked 
through the boards. 

With a spring, one young Trooper caught the edges 
of the hole in his hands and was about to haul himself 
up to look in, when a heavy jerk on his belt brought 
him back with a thud. 

i "Young man, that's what that hole was made for 
— for you to stick your head in," said Sergeant Marsh, 
giving the lad a shake as he cast him loose. "But we '11 
see what's in that attic, all the same. Casey, come 
on. Take along the axe." 

Sergeant Marsh and Private Casey, swarming up 
outside by window-frame and cornice, were busy on 
the roof chopping through the shingles, when a warn- 
ing shout and a burst of flame sent them sliding to 
earth. 

As they landed, an inert weight struck earth beside 
them. It was the body of the gunman found crouching 
in the window, thrown down by the Troopers to save 
it from the fire. 



28 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

The house was now untenable for another moment. 
The men, pouring out, gathered at a safe distance to 
watch what was to come. 

The dynamite explosion had in some way started 
a blaze. The blaze flew, sweeping all before it. As it 
reached the depot of miners' stores, the whole place 
went roaring. The roof crashed in, pitching down 
into the depths of the pile. As it went the bodies of 
two men, whether dead or alive no one could say, fell 
out of its sundered air-space and dropped before it 
into the furnace beneath. 

With the rush and roar of the flames and with the 
heavy detonations of the high explosives in the shop, 
came a rapid and fitful rattle of slighter discharges, 
as store after store of small-arms' ammunition, con- 
cealed here and there about the house, responded 
to heat and fire. Thousands of rounds in this way 
betrayed themselves, and when, as presently befell, 
the whole structure sank to the ground, a mass of 
burning embers, the heat striking down into the nether 
air-space exploded several hundred rounds more. 

First Sergeant Lumb, as the body of the dead gun- 
man was tossed from the window, had ordered it 
recovered and brought to a place of safety. Now 
that there was time, the Troopers stopped to look 
at it. 

"That's not Walsach!" said Sergeant Logan, with- 
out enthusiasm. 

"But I'll tell you who it is, though. It's Jim Ta- 
bone," exclaimed another. 

"Jim Tabone it surely is!" a third and a fourth 
acquiesced. 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 29 

Jim Tabone was an Italian agitator, who had 
several times been seized by "D" Troop's hand for 
carrying concealed deadly weapons and for threats 
to kill. The courts had fined him soundly for his mis- 
demeanors, and in consequence he bore a lively grudge 
against the Force. 

That he had taken his part in the fray with a right 
good will, no one knowing his past could doubt. That 
his death had occurred after almost all his mates had 
fled was to be inferred from his position in the window. 
For his room would have been wanted by another 
marksman had his end come earlier in the fray. 

Tabone himself, as a soldier in the Italian Army, 
had fought in Abyssinia against King Menelik, win- 
ning there a sharpshooter's medal of which he was 
very proud. In season and out of season he had aired 
his hatred of the State Police to all his world. Here 
in this house, on this wild night, he had without doubt 
been flaunting his determination to fight them to a 
bloody end. 

Where could there be a finer field? What more 
could his mad heart desire? Here was good entrench- 
ment, here were weapons and ammunition, beyond his 
utmost need. Here was the enemy deployed before 
him and sure to stick. 

"I know Jim Tabone," soliloquized Sergeant Marsh, 
as he stood looking down on the dead man's face. "I 
know what was in that mind of his, all night long. 
He said to himself, 'This is my Big Chance. This is 
my getting-off place. I'll go in state! And he was as 
happy as a king." 



30 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Then the detail jumped to the work of searching 
the settlement — searching every house in which par- 
ticipants might be lodged. All through the upper 
section, where the vicious element clustered, they 
gathered sheaves of men. Under beds, in closets, in 
coal-holes and wells and attics, they found them and 
dragged them forth — gnashing, hating, shaken with 
doubts and fears. And every man of them carried 
hidden arms. 

Meantime First Sergeant Lumb, with a squad of 
five Troopers, was riding back to Anita at the fork 
of the roads — to the Palace Hotel, to the dubious 
Pole, to his neighbors who were not dubious at all. 
With an enveloping swirl they assumed the place, 
plucked from it those ripe for the plucking and 
whisked them away to jail. 

Every one of these arrests, whether made at Flor- 
ence or at the fork of the road, was followed by con- 
viction on such charges as the evidence justified, in 
the next term of court. But the public at large waited 
no verdict of court in determining its own attitude 
toward the affair. There were sections in that region 
where scarcely a week had passed, for the last ten 
years, without the occurrence of murder. And there 
was no section, anywhere, that did not directly or indi- 
rectly suffer danger, uneasiness, and harm by the im- 
pudent thrift of the lawless in the land. 

The event at Florence, by one stroke, acquainted 
the public with the mettle and character of the new 
Force, and made every honest man its respectful 
friend. For the Force itself it performed another serv- 
ice: It awakened it to a graver and wider view of its 



THE HONOR OF THE FORCE 31 

own possibilities, of its future work, and of the ex- 
treme sacrifice that at any moment might be asked 
of it. And it knit the brotherhood together by bonds 
stronger than death. 

The two lives given at Florence were its first blood- 
offering. Since that day many a Trooper has freely 
and gallantly laid down his life in the service of the 
State of Pennsylvania and of the Right. And every 
man on the Squadron hides behind his straight and 
quiet gaze in the knowledge that on any hour of any 
day the same last sacrifice may be asked of him. 

When that hour strikes, he will give not less gal- 
lantly, not less wholly, than did those who are gone 
before. 

First Sergeant Lumb, having served with honor 
through all intermediary steps, is now Deputy Su- 
perintendent of the Force, with the rank of Captain. 
He is also a member of the bar of the State. 

Private Homer A. Chambers, — "Dick" Cham- 
bers, as half the State calls him, — with scars all over 
his body, with an eye shot away, and still carrying 
mementoes within him in the form of balls of lead, 
now serves as Sergeant Chambers of Troop "A." 
Countless times since his extraordinary recovery after 
the Florence fight has he performed valiant service 
" for the Major." Countless times has he earned the 
gratitude of all good men. 

Toward those who so barbarously shot him, not an 
atom of malice remains in his simple heart. 

"What fiends!" exclaimed one listening to the 
tale. 

"Fiends! Why, no," said Sergeant Chambers, in 



32 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

mild expostulation and surprise. "Good fighting ani- 
mals — that's all!" 

The names of Henry and of Zehringer will never 
be forgotten in the Squadron. The elder officers who 
were their friends and comrades still teach their story 
in lowered voices to succeeding relays of recruits, who 
learn and ponder the tale until it is as if the two were 
elder brothers barely lost to sight. 

Henry, a quiet, reserved, and most courageous 
man, had been a general favorite with the Troop. Zeh- 
ringer, who was of French extraction, had behind him 
a fine record of service in the Fourth United States 
Cavalry and the Sixtieth Coast Artillery. He had 
served against the Indians, and in Cuba, in Alaska 
and the Philippines. He had won medals for life- 
saving, medals for sharpshooting, he was a past- 
master of horsemanship; but his comrades loved him 
above all as one who was never so happy as when 
helping a friend. 

It was big Sergeant Marsh — ■ Lieutenant now and 
pillar of the temple — who said just the other day, 
with the shade of a tremor in his steady voice: — 

"The Force owes a lot to those two. As for the 
action itself, if we had it to handle again, we might 
handle it differently. But we were young then, all of 
us, with much to learn. And those two bore our stand- 
ard that day — planted it where it belongs. They 
taught us to hold the honor of the Force dearer than 
life. They gave their own lives to do it, readily and 
gladly — and — that's all any man can give!" 



n 

" D " TROOP TIDIES UP 

HILLSVILLE, in Lawrence County, is a little 
old-fashioned country village, very close to the 
Ohio line. A mile or two from the village lies a great 
limestone quarry, and this limestone quarry, by the 
time when this story begins, had already drawn about 
itself a dependent population of considerable size. 

The quarry workers composing the settlements 
were Italian, almost all. With the exception of the 
foremen, scarcely an American was to be found there, 
and the life that went on, as far as might be, was a 
life from across the seas. 

A veil of white dust forever covered the place, mak- 
ing each roof and ledge and path look as though 
smothered in ashes. The few trees and shrubs that 
remained were blighted and hoary. No natural beauty 
could survive that ghostly pall. Yet the dark-faced 
multitude lived in contentment at its work, and, 
ashen and arid though the face it wore, the quarry 
settlement was prosperous enough. Its people laid up 
money, lived as well as they cared to live, married 
comfortably, reared multitudinous children, and of 
an evening sang and danced and strolled to the tune 
of their own guitars. All went well. 

Then the serpent crept into the place, plural-headed, 
in the guise of evil men. And these evil men, by twos 
and threes but not in cohesion, fell upon the people 



34 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

with malice and fury, so that their peace was no 
more. 

The old life sank away fast. The bandits clutched 
it by the throat. In place of the old easy rivalry in 
display of improving fortunes, came a fear to let it be 
seen that anything better than poverty reigned in the 
house. Robberies and extortions went on with in- 
creasing boldness. Resistance was punished by death. 

At first the penalty was inflicted under cover of 
night. The man or woman who dared refuse a demand 
for tribute was shot, through the window of the home, 
and dropped forward across the supper-table, dead, 
under the evening lamp. Then people lighted no 
lamp, and spent their evenings behind barred doors, 
shivering in the dark. 

After that came a worse stage yet, when light or 
darkness made no odds, when dynamite bombs burst 
any bars, and when even in broad sunshine men who 
ventured afield alone were found lying stiff in the 
highroad with queer holes in their backs. Then the 
place named itself "Helltown" — and the name, be- 
ing pertinent, stuck. 

For a time the people in the old country village of 
Hillsville — native Americans, original holders of the 
land — looked on at all this as no concern of theirs. 
These strange folk, speaking a strange tongue, think- 
ing strange thoughts, were sojourners only. They 
preyed upon each other — robbers and robbed, slay- 
ers and slain. They lived their own separate lives. 
And eventually they went back across the seas, tak- 
ing their gains and their ways with them, leaving no 
mark behind. 



D TROOP TIDIES UP 35 

Then, little by little, the sound old Hillsville farm- 
ers began to reconsider their view. It was true that 
the quarry settlement, in the life-experience of the 
average settler, was only a point in a circle starting 
in Italy, and returning to Italy again. But the in- 
dividual swinging away to complete his circle was 
always replaced by the individual who arrived. The 
field for criminal operation remained intact. The 
criminal type induced was imaginative, piratical, free. 
And it was operating unchecked. 

In Italy there was a strong and vigilant police 
power, exercised over the entire kingdom, rural and 
urban alike. That, indeed, was the very reason why 
many of the Italians were here — to escape Italian 
justice. Having come here, they found by bold and 
bolder experiment that not even the greatest excesses 
of lawlessness in which they could indulge would evoke 
any sign of real life on the part of outraged Govern- 
ment. 

These people were neither stupid nor unambitious. 
Given, then, their peculiar standards, was it likely 
that they would long content themselves with such 
lean picking as they could tweak from each other, 
when the wealth of whole countrysides lay ready to 
their hand? 

And what had Hillsville to oppose to their out- 
reaching? Hillsville, like any other country village, had 
its constable. And the constable, relic of an ancient 
Arcadian day when crime was rare, when men were of 
one blood, and when public opinion brought iron force 
to back the law — the constable was as powerful 
against Helltown as a reed-bird against a typhoon. 



36 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Something must be done. Helltown was not filled 
with demons. All but a few of its denizens were quiet, 
decent folk in their way. And in any case they were 
entitled to the protection, the execution, of the law 
of the land. Moreover, Hillsville itself, when it came 
really to think of it, did not care to await the bite 
of the stiletto before looking to the safety of its own 
place in the sun. 

So Hillsville turned and confronted the county: 
What would the county do? 

First, there was the sheriff; this was a sheriff's job. 
And, as every experienced person knew, it was ridicu- 
lous and unjust to expect the sheriff to handle it with 
the means at his command. Practically all the evi- 
dence, in any individual instance that he might choose 
to pursue, would be found to lie in Italian hands. The 
Italians, having been used, on the one side, to see 
American law and law officers ignored, having been 
used, on the other side, to see their own brigands 
exercise wrath with a sure and deadly stroke — the 
Italians, under such circumstances, could scarcely 
hesitate. They would refuse to help the impotent 
American law officers, since to do so was fruitlessly 
to endanger their own lives. They would refuse to 
anger the potent criminal who, if only as a matter of 
business, would make his revenge sure. 

Moreover, if by any off chance a suspect should be 
singled out for arrest, he had only to slip over the 
border into another county or across the State line. 
And then, who was to bear the expenses of the pur- 
suit? County funds, like county power, are available 
only within the county. Was it reasonable to expect 



D TROOP TIDIES UP 37 

the poor sheriff to pay out of his own pocket for the 
pleasure of getting himself assassinated later on, by 
the criminal's friends, while the criminal himself gaily 
followed his calling in safe contiguous fields? 

As to the District Attorney, he was no whit better 
off. He had no detective force meet to cope with a 
task like this. Moreover, in a county largely rural, 
normally peaceful, and not rich, it would be burden- 
some beyond reason to impose upon the taxpayers 
charges for the maintenance of competent county de- 
tectives whose services, however seriously needed at 
rare intervals, were in general not needed at all. 

But the District Attorney of Lawrence County, 
Mr. Young, was an official of calibre. Despite the 
odds against him he took up the task like a man and 
went ahead as best he could. That best, owing to the 
intelligence and to the conscientious hard work that 
he put into the thing, surpassed all likelihood. But it 
stopped short of producing evidence sufficient to con- 
vict, nor by any effort could it attain that point. 

So District Attorney Young having done his level 
utmost, appealed for help to the State, and the State 
sent him her own Police. 

"D" Troop furnished the detail; and that detail 
came guided by the sort of wisdom that men must 
employ when two hundred and twenty-eight of them 
handle the troubles of sixty-five counties. 

Here, it reasoned, was an entirely Italian people, 
Italian of experience and of thought; used, in the 
country of its birth, to see the Law riding imposingly 
armed, in the uniform of the King, daily before its 
eyes; used to Law made visible and dread. This people, 



38 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

transported to America, discovered here no outward 
sign of law at all. Nowhere was there any one wearing 
Government uniform, and the worst crimes in the 
category, committed again and again in the broad 
light of day, failed to tease forth any evidence of the 
existence of law in the land. Therefore they assumed 
a perfectly natural and perfectly literal interpre- 
tation of the well-worn phrase "the Land of the 
Free." 

Reviewing these facts, the officers of Troop "D" 
concluded that psychology indicated an open parade 
of force. Therefore, after a little quiet preliminary 
work to test and confirm the District Attorney's ob- 
servations, they decided to despatch the detail di- 
rectly into Helltown, not secretly, but in the most 
conspicuous manner possible. 

So, one pleasant summer evening just at the sup- 
per-hour, when every denizen of the place was at 
home to see, First Sergeant William Marsh, late Ser- 
geant of United States Marines, big, handsome, 
every inch a soldier, and as malleable of mien as a 
ledge of granite in place, rode straight down the 
middle of Helltown's main street. He wore the sombre 
uniform of the State Police, and wore it with that 
punctilous regard for every button and hook that, 
in itself, conveys the thought of unity and discipline. 
His big service revolver hung in his full-filled car- 
tridge belt, and he sat his horse as though the horse 
and he were one. 

Behind this awakening figure rode eight others like 
unto him, except for the chevrons on the sleeve. And 
all Helltown craned at its windows, crowded to its 




HODE STRAIGHT DOWN HeLLTOWN's MAIN STREET 



D TROOP TIDIES UP 39 

porches, rushed out into the street to follow the course 
of the cavalcade with stupefied gaze. 

As for the Troopers themselves, they seemed un- 
aware that Helltown was peopled at all. They carried 
their eyes straight ahead with impersonal vision fixed 
down the aisles of time. 

The destination of the detail was an old one-room 
cabin, well within the settlement and kin to half the 
buildings in the place. It had stood for some time 
empty and unused, and nine army cots, a table or 
two, and a few chairs now constituted its only fur- 
niture. 

Both in character and in location, this abode had 
been chosen in order to induce approach by the people 
of the place. If a man brooding on troubles and wrongs 
should suddenly muster up courage to air those wrongs 
to the police, he could slip into this inconspicuous and 
centrally located cabin under cover of darkness, tell 
his tale, get advice, and merge away again into the 
night, leaving no gossip the wiser for his boldness. 
Whereas, if the detail had been comfortably housed 
outside the settlement, every man who ventured near 
it would have been marked by spying eyes. 

This easy accessibility, coupled with the sense of 
power and the power of the Law that the State uni- 
form and the soldierly bearing of the Troopers in- 
duced, soon took its full effect. Helltown itself was 
bitterly tired of its bondage. A sign of real deliver- 
ance, of the shadow of a rock to which it might safely 
fly, was more than welcome to its eyes. After the first 
period of doubt and self-assuring, its courage grew 
apace. 



40 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

The new Presence induced a gradual return to modes 
of life that of late had ceased to exist. Finding that 
the kindly carabinieri would freely give their power- 
ful services in protection, the people ventured to make 
fiestas, to celebrate weddings, to do a hundred pleas- 
ant things dear to their hearts, but from which they 
had been debarred. And they hated their oppressors 
with a new courage and a new activity. Victims of 
criminal tyranny stole night after night to the shack, 
and one of the detail who speaks all Italian dialects, 
was kept busy in translating their complaints. 

At last First Sergeant Marsh knew that he had 
evidence enough in hand to warrant arrests, which, 
in the code of the Force, means evidence sufficient to 
convict. Then he suddenly flung his net and drew it 
sharply in again with twenty-three man-eaters floun- 
dering helpless in its toils. 

Needless to add, they were indignant man-eaters, 
and eloquent concerning the farce of American democ- 
racy. But all of them went to the county jail. 

This work had been accomplished in exactly six 
weeks and three days. As a prompt result the twenty- 
three outlaws were tried, convicted, and sent to the 
penitentiary for terms of from three to ten years; 
almost a hundred other dubious characters fled from 
the region; and the quarry settlement comfortably 
resumed its old character as a peaceful, happy, and 
prosperous little community. 

Meantime, the wheel of life had been whirring 
rapidly over all "D " Troop's wide territory. Demands 
for help of every kind had kept the command jump- 
ing, and no sooner had Sergeant Marsh cast out the 



D TROOP TIDIES UP 41 

devils from Helltown than he must answer the long 
reiterated and desperate call of the District Attorney 
of Mercer, the adjoining county. 

The town of South Sharon, in the valley of the 
Shenango, contained great steel mills in which large 
numbers of Italians were employed. Out of the Latin 
population had arisen many men of abler parts who, 
by one means or another, had amassed little fortunes 
of from ten to thirty thousand dollars or more. These 
now continued amply to prosper, whether as fruit- 
dealers, merchants, vintners, or bankers, and, taken 
with the solid background of the daily wage-earners 
behind them, they furnished an ideal public for a Black 
Hand King. 

Therefore there came a Black Hand King, who, 
under the misleadingly easy-sounding name of "Mike 
Portolessi," laid a bloody sceptre along the Shenango 
Valley. 

Mike Portolessi staged himself with care. He 
dressed elaborately, and rarely appeared in public 
except in a frock coat and a silk hat. He wore a great 
and fierce mustache, which did not conceal the many 
knife wounds in his face. His bearing, quite correctly, 
was the bearing of a man of affluence. His manner 
was extremely smooth and courteous, and he gave the 
impression of intelligence and of poise. He spent 
money with a free hand. He was known to be ab- 
solutely fearless and cool, and although the pistol 
was his favorite weapon, he was a past-master with 
the stiletto and had come off victor in many duels 
fought with that terrible tool. Every Italian in the 
place not only addressed him, but spoke of him as 



42 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Mr. Portolessi" — and every one of them, from the 
first to the least, swept off his hat as Portolessi passed. 

His supremacy had been established in the simplest 
way in the world. On his initial appearing in the place 
Mike had spent a little time in quiet inquiry as to the 
financial condition of certain members of the Italian 
colony. Then, one by one, he had sent for a selected 
number of those whose names stood on his list, and 
had explained to them his plans. He was come, he 
said, to represent the Mafia in the Shenango Valley, 
and would now proceed in due order to organize the 
local branch. "You," he would announce to the 
man of the moment, "will be assessed five hundred 
dollars membership fee. You will pay it to me, here, 
to-morrow." 

"But — but — " the other would flounder. 

"But" Mike would conclude urbanely, "other- 
wise you will certainly be killed. As representing The 
Society I shall see to that!" 

Sometimes he made the membership fee only two 
hundred and fifty dollars, tempering it to the means 
of the candidate; sometimes he increased it to four 
times that sum. But in any case the bank of the 
"local" was his own bottomless pocket, and what 
went into it never came out except for Mike's per- 
sonal ends. He kept a little stream trickling back to 
Italy, to make a golden setting for his latter days. 
He diverted a runlet to the upkeep of a disseminated 
harem in the land of his sojourn. The rest he spent 
on his pet diversion, gambling; or on any flitting 
pleasure that the moment chanced to suggest. 

Some of the most important members of his " local," 



D TROOP TIDIES UP 43 

perhaps two or three, received a small percentage 
of the levies paid in. These men would be the 
most forward lieutenants. But those who received no 
part of the booty labored as hard, for they worked, 
after all, for their very lives, forfeit to Portolessi at 
Portolessi's will. 

On several occasions it had been necessary to make 
the truth of the forfeit clear to the people. Then the 
doubter had been "invited" to the house of the King, 
formally slain there, and buried in the cellar, with 
such ceremony as should make it plain that this was 
no nervous and hasty deed, but the due and inevitable 
procedure of The Society. 

The cellar of the King's house thereby became a 
sort of ritual chamber, endued with spiritual presences 
that powerfully assisted in the solemnity of the place. 
When a man was found so incredulous or so self- 
sufficient and rash as to refuse the tribute demanded, 
that man was brought into the King's cellar in dead 
of night. There, in the presence of the leaders and 
neophytes of the "local," he was shown the graves 
already occupied. Then a pick and shovel were put 
into his hand, his length and breadth were marked 
out on the earthy floor, and he was ordered to dig 
a grave for himself. 

Upon that, if he still persisted in his defiance, he 
was duly extinguished and covered down. 

The report of these things spread, through the wire- 
less of the colony, just as Portolessi designed. And, 
in spreading, it induced a united and instructed pub- 
lic spirit that greatly simplified Portolessi's work. 
Progress along educational lines was particularly 



44 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

gratifying to the King, because it relieved him of the 
crude, ungraceful necessity of violence. Complete un- 
derstanding was all that was needed, he urged with 
affable insistence. With complete understanding all 
cause for unpleasantness would disappear. 

In this way he was able quite peaceably to drop in 
one morning upon an old half -blind Italian cobbler, 
who sat in his leather apron among strange smells 
and heaped-up patches mending a laborer's boot. 

"Buon' giorno, Salvatore," — the King was in a 
midsummer mood, — "Salvatore, my friend, do me 
a favor. Just get your bank book and take a little 
stroll with me." 

The cobbler knew not what it meant — but his 
wretched heart turned to water and ran away. 

"This boot — I promised it to Luigi Tutino, faith- 
fully, for noon . . ." 

"Luigi Tutino will be glad to wait. You will tell 
him it is my business. Make haste." 

The miserable cobbler did exactly as he was bid. 
He was a feeble old man. His old wife lay always 
ailing in her bed. His only child was a charge upon 
him. This passbook was his best and solitary friend. 
The sum recorded in it stood for the painful, patient 
self-denial of many years. His under lip trembled and 
his hands were wet and cold as he crossed the threshold 
into the street. 

Chatting in his cheerful style, returning affably the 
solicitous bow of each Italian on the way, Portolessi 
led the cobbler straight to his bank. 

"Now, my dear friend," said he, as they two side 
by side entered the bank door, "you will hand in that 



D TROOP TIDIES UP 45 

passbook, and you will say to the cashier that you 
want to withdraw all your money — ' / will take my 
entire balance. 9 So, speak!" 

The cobbler, in his tattered overalls, again obeyed. 
His face was gray, deathly. His poor old toil- wrenched 
fingers clung shaking to the little book — released 
it slowly within the grill, as with a lingering last 
caress. 

The King, in his shining silk hat and his grand 
frock coat with a scarlet flower in the buttonhole, 
stood at the window by the cobbler's side, bland, 
suave, radiating affluence, watching the teller count 
out the bills. The teller recounted, shoved the sheaf 
through. 

"Two hundred and sixty-five, exact," said he. 

Portolessi picked up the bills and deftly ran them 
over again. 

"Two hundred and sixty-five. Right, thank you," 
he acquiesced in his usual courteous way. "Come 
now, my dear Salvatore. Sign the receipt. You must 
get back to Luigi Tutino's boot!" 

He was folding the greenbacks into his own pros- 
perous purse, as he spoke. And the cobbler would 
no more have dared, either then or at any later time, 
to raise the question with him than he would have 
dared to dispute with the Angel of Death. 

Anna Ruffino, wife of a rich and respectable Italian, 
unaffiliated with The Society, did dare to refuse the 
demand of one of the King's messengers, delivered 
at her own door one August afternoon. The demand 
was for one hundred dollars in cash, desired for The 
Society's use. The next afternoon, before the eyes of 



46 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

the whole street, Anna Ruffino was shot down in the 
open highway, while her husband at her side was 
badly wounded. Such was the comment of the Xing, 
delivered by the selfsame messenger. 

Similar incidents happened not once but hundreds 
of times, and through a chain of years. And then a 
not unusual thing occurred; a little revolution started 
in the ranks. 

The plausible face of the affair was a natural out- 
burst on the part of the victimized Italians against 
the sleek vampire that so long had feasted on their 
blood. But the probable underlying truth was that 
some younger would-be Black Hand King, envious 
of Portolessi's fat prosperity, plotted his overthrow; 
and that this aspirant, endowed with superior initia- 
tive and courage and spurred by his secret ambition, 
excited and led on the rest. 

They got together secretly, armed themselves with 
rifles, moved under cover of darkness upon the King's 
house at an hour when the leaders of the "local" were 
known to be in conclave there, and opened a cross- 
fire upon the windows. Well enough they knew how 
the thing should be done. But, although they killed 
two adepts and wounded a third, Portolessi himself 
escaped, getting utterly away into the unknown. 

Then, indeed, terror set in. They had attempted 
regicide and the King remained free and unscathed. 
Their punishment loomed sure. No better than dead 
men were they, one and all. 

But the immediate effect of the affair was to drive 
the District Attorney of Mercer County to another 
and more desperate call for help from the State Police. 



D TROOP TIDIES UP 47 

It came, by chance, just as Sergeant Marsh, over 
in Helltown, had swept his twenty-three man-eaters 
into the Lawrence County jail. It was still his duty to 
maintain a supporting hand upon the young regenera- 
tion of the quarry settlement, but as South Sharon 
was not beyond riding distance away, this could be 
done while working from a centre in the latter place. 
So the "D" Troop detail was moved from Helltown 
to South Sharon, where it took up its quarters in a 
small hotel. 

The problem here differed from that of the quarry 
settlement in many ways. South Sharon was a bor- 
ough of some ten thousand inhabitants. Its Black 
Hand organization was well defined, and the chronic 
irritation of that presence had newly induced an acute 
outbreak, as has been seen. The case was ripe for 
rapid action, before present heat should be reab- 
sorbed. 

Sergeant Marsh proceeded first to find an Italian 
conversant with the inner history of the affair. Not 
over-innocent himself, this man could not neglect an 
opportunity to serve the State in what might be the 
State's hour. From him the Sergeant learned the 
names of many Italians who had been levied upon by 
Portolessi and his gang. These, in turn, would now 
speak to Sergeant Marsh — to an officer of the State 
Police — with a confidence impossible toward any 
other human being in their known world. He came 
clothed in the bright prestige of success. He, and the 
officers under him, with the Power back of them, had 
but just attacked Italian outlaws on their own estab- 
lished ground, and had triumphantly won. 



48 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Everywhere in the Commonwealth, moreover, the 
new Force was performing like feats — was proving 
with deadly strokes the actual existence of that 
hitherto hazy and apocryphal concept, the Law of the 
State. Each fresh news of it went thrilling across the 
land by that underground telegraphy that reaches 
beyond the reach of the press. 

Never had the county forces triumphed so. Never 
would wise men risk their fortunes with the losing 
side. But here was a man who had made awesomely 
good, and who looked as if he would do it again. 
Better make friends with him quickly — with him and 
the great new engine behind him, while yet there was 
time. 

So they told Sergeant Marsh considerable sections 
of truth — every bit that they dared. 

They had all joined The Society, the Black Hand; 
that they admitted without hesitation. They had 
done this because, had they refused, they would have 
been killed. Not even flight would have saved them, 
since, for the sake of discipline, The Society would 
have marked them for extermination and the mark 
would have insured their murder, somewhere, any- 
where, before long. 

What benefits had they derived from their member- 
ship and the heavy fees they paid in? The vital bene- 
fit of being allowed to live. 

Had they attended meetings of The Society? Yes, 
when levies were assessed upon them. 

Where had the meetings occurred and whom had 
they seen there? The meetings had occurred at Porto- 
lessi's house, and they had seen there, besides the 



D TROOP TIDIES UP 49 

King himself, many of the principal Italian business 
men of the city of South Sharon. 

These latter, being arrested, admitted their Black 
Hand membership, and advanced the same reason or 
excuse as that advanced by the smaller fry. They 
had been threatened and terrorized by Mike Porto- 
lessi. 

Had they shared in the booty? Well — they would 
rather say that they had helped the King to terrorize 
and to levy upon the rest because their lives were 
forfeit to him should they dare to refuse. Men who 
refused died always, violently and soon. 

Whose hand had done the killing? Ah! That they 
could not say. 

Meanwhile the trap was set for the King. It was 
a complicated trap, with many ramifications, the 
better to snare him, wherever he might be. At last 
it snapped its jaws, with Mike Portolessi fast be- 
tween them. The Chief of Police of Niagara Falls 
performed the actual arrest, and the fact that the 
King had sought congenial asylum in this New York 
town served to show once again the spread and the 
interlocking cooperation of the Mafia system back 
and forth across the States. 

At the trial Portolessi, like his lieutenants, freely 
admitted his membership and activities in the Black 
Hand organization. The origin of the graves in the 
cellar and the ghastly rites performed about them 
were all testified to upon oath. Even the books, pa- 
pers, and accounts of the "local," as kept in regular 
business form, were produced in evidence. But the 
one point as to whose hand actually committed the 



50 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

murders done in ceremony — that one point evaded 
discovery to the end. In all likelihood it was the hand 
of the King himself. In all likelihood he caused the 
company to cover their eyes when the blow was struck, 
so that all they actually saw, after an interval of 
eclipsed vision, was the dead man at their feet. It 
seemed really doubtful if any but the King himself 
could testify of exact personal knowledge as to the 
executioner. 

So Mike Portolessi, with his soft and supple gam- 
bler's hands, his pleasant manners and the red flower 
in his buttonhole, went off to prison for ten years — 
not a long service for the crimes he had done, not a 
long respite for the people his prey, but as long a term 
as the law would permit. Of the nine men arrested 
with him, each was duly convicted of confederacy 
in his felonies, on the evidence gathered by the State 
Police. The work in this case was accomplished in 
about a month's time. 

As is uniformly the fact during such protracted 
tours of special duty, the Troopers found many and 
varied opportunities for usefulness to a widespread 
people cropping up casually on their daily path. They 
seized these opportunities in a way to ally to the 
Force every good citizen. 

But some citizens of that countryside were very 
far from good. Seeing the able procedure that was 
bringing the Portolessi affair so rapidly forward, the 
delighted District Attorney one day told Sergeant 
Marsh of an evil house that had long been a bane in 
his district, but which he had hitherto found himself 
powerless to touch. 



D TROOP TIDIES UP 51 

"Will you undertake it?" asked the District At- 
torney. 

"If you request it, I will," the Sergeant replied. 

He raided the place and released all the inmates, 
poor wrecks of humanity now in every need of care. 
The proprietor he discovered to be a Russian Jew, 
owner of several other such infernos, one of which was 
in Youngstown, Ohio. In Youngstown the Sergeant 
found the man himself, presiding over a gambling- 
house also his property. Safe in the knowledge that 
under the Ohio law his crime was not an extraditable 
offense, this miserable creature rather welcomed an 
opportunity to glorify his own deeds. The girls in his 
Pennsylvanian house, he explained, he had imported 
from Hungary, through a Hungarian tool of his, whose 
method was to write back to his native town offering 
to families of his acquaintance work for their girls 
in America. Speaking no English, trusting their coun- 
tryman, the girls would come. At New York the tool 
would meet them, and bring them to their fate. Cer- 
tain officials — and, with many chuckles, the Jew 
named the officials — had been glad to protect him in 
this industry, "for a consiteration, my frient, for a 
leetle consiteration, ha, ha!" 

He would not cross the border to testify, wily rat 
that he was, and the accused officials went free. But 
they had had a fright, at least; their trade was broken 
up; and, best of all, perhaps, the District Attorney 
had found that he himself was no longer helpless to do 
his duty — because the State would do her duty by 
him with a strong hand. 

On the day on which this incident was closed, 



52 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Sergeant Marsh rode over to Mercer, the county 
town, to report. 

"There 's another such place in my bailiwick — same 
kind of a den, and a real curse to the land," the Dis- 
trict Attorney was saying, as the two finished their 
talk. "You know, the people of this county are in 
general an estimable class — quiet, industrious, re- 
ligious, good, honest farmer stock. To have one of 
these pest-holes planted right down among them is 
an awful thing for them. And here, in this village I 'm 
telling you about, the beast is I 

"Why, I'd hate to have to count the number of 
complaints I've received about it, mostly from the 
neighbors, near or far. Men making for that place, 
and often under the influence of liquor, mistake every 
house within a couple of miles' radius for the hole 
they're looking for, and try to get in. There's one 
fine old lady who lives in that vicinity, with a family 
of daughters, running her deceased husband's farm. 
She has come all the way in here to my office, again 
and again, to tell me about her frights, and about 
the insults and dangers that have been thrust upon 
her daughters by men, drunk or sober, mistaking her 
house. I 've been particularly sorry for her — but I 
ask you, what could I do? 

"It has been simply impossible for me to get that 
place raided. I can't get it done. But the way you 
State Police are coming on gives me a new view of 
my own situation. You can't be intimidated by local 
conditions, you can't be bought or scared, and you 
don't mean extra expense. So much is plain. Now, 
would you raid that rats' nest for me and lift the 
scandal off my head?" 



D TROOP TIDIES UP 53 

"Bless you, yes!" said the big Sergeant. "Why, 
I'll go round and do it on my way home to-night." 

Reaching for the telephone, he called up his own 
headquarters and gave the Trooper on duty orders 
to send two others in civilian dress to the den in ques- 
tion. Upon their arrival there, he concluded, they 
would report, by telephone, to him, the Sergeant, at 
the village hotel. 

Then he wished the District Attorney good-night, 
and, accompanied by the one Trooper with whom he 
had entered Mercer an hour or two before, started 
off to ride to the scene of his interlude. 

"Good luck to you!" the District Attorney called 
after him. "If you succeed I shall be a happy man 
to-night!" 

Sergeant Marsh and his companion, both in uni- 
form, rode up to the village hotel in the early evening, 
dismounted, and went in to supper like any one else. 
Shortly after the meal, as they sat on the veranda 
smoking, a telephone call came for Sergeant Marsh. 

"Everything's in hand here, Sergeant, and all the 
inmates secured." It was the senior Trooper of the 
pair ordered out, reporting according to orders. 

"Very well, I'll be there directly," the Sergeant 
rejoined. 

A few moments later he was running up the steps 
of the dwelling of the Chief of Police. 

"I am Sergeant Marsh, of the Pennsylvania State 
Police Force," he explained, looking very soldierly 
and formidable under the light of the Chief's parlor 
lamp. "I would like to borrow your patrol-wagon, 
Chief." 



54 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"You can have it, certainly. Glad to oblige you," 
rejoined the other, all liberal affability. "And might 
I ask what you want it for?" 

"I'm raiding a disorderly house." 

In a flash the Chief's manner changed. Greatly ex- 
cited and flurried, he stammered: — 

"I — I think I'll have to consult the Burgess about 
that wagon ... I . . . Just wait a moment, can you, 
please?" 

He rushed to the telephone in another room. The 
number that he gave was the number of the disor- 
derly house. The senior Trooper answered the call 
in a guarded, de-individualized voice. 

"Say! This is the Chief of Police talking," ran the 
words that came back to him; "you will have to get 
out of there — get everybody out of there — right 
away. Quick!" i 

"All right! All right! We'll attend to it. Good- 
bye!" 

Back came the Chief, perspiring and nervous, but 
satisfied. 

"It's all right. Sorry to have kept you waiting. 
The Burgess says you're welcome to the patrol 
wagon." 

"I am much obliged," said the big Sergeant de- 
liberately. 

"You'd better hurry up!" urged the Chief, anxious 
to seem businesslike, now that the game was saved. 

"Oh, no," dissented the officer coolly. "There's no 
need of any hurry. The place was raided before I 
spoke to you. My men are in possession now. No- 
body is going to get away." 



D TROOP TIDIES UP 55 

Nobody did get away. 

Like the people in Hillsville and in poor little Hell- 
town, like the people in Sharon and in all the county 
of Lawrence and of Mercer, the decent people of this 
sorely tried village were made glad at heart. 

And so, when the Helltown blackguards were 
convicted, sentenced and away, when Portolessi and 
his lieutenants had received their reward, while a 
motley multitude of other plagues had been rooted 
out in passing, First Sergeant Marsh and his detail 
rode on to other fields. 

"Will you come back and help us the next time 
we're up against it?" some one shouted, out of the 
crowd that saw them off. 

Said the Sergeant, from the saddle, "That's what 
we're for!" 



in 

BABE 

"D ABE is Corporal Metcalf's horse. But when, 
■L* knowing the circumstances, you phrase it that 
way, the words strike your ear as misleading. Babe is 
a horse only in the sense that your own precious first- 
born, lying in your arms, is a primate mammal — 
you cannot deny the fact, nevertheless its assertion 
is ridiculous. 

Babe, if you ask Corporal Metcalf, is the finest 
horse in the Squadron. And Corporal Metcalf, as 
Troop farrier for twelve years, as Regular Army far- 
rier before that time, and as graduate of the Mounted 
Service School at Fort Riley, ought to know. But 
there are two hundred and thirty-one other horses in 
the Squadron, not one of whom, if his master were 
by, you could comfortably assign to second place. So 
it is better not to begin on comparisons. 

Babe, then, in Corporal Metcalf's eyes, is the dear- 
est thing in the world. And in that, if you knew all 
the Corporal knows, you would gladly understand 
him. 

The points are all there, of course. So much goes 
without saying. And, equally of course, anything and 
everything that human skill and care can do for the 
comfort, health, and beauty of a horse, Corporal Met- 
calf does for Babe, with tireless devotion. But, beyond 
all that, he has loved Babe's very soul up out of that 



BABE 57 

pit where all souls lie asleep till some love so awakens 
them; which in itself makes a deathless bond that 
binds the roots of loyalty. 

Babe and the Corporal do not take the open road 
together quite as much as they would like, for the 
reason that the Corporal is largely busy in his shop — 
to what purpose is best proved by the beautiful con- 
dition of all of "B" Troop's horses. But now and 
again comes a stretch of work that gives these two 
their fling in the world, hand in hand with happiness. 

Such a stretch was on in the spring of 1916, when 
conditions of disorder distracted Luzerne and Lacka- 
wanna Counties, when the entire Troop was busy, 
the round of the clock, in maintaining peace and pre- 
venting bloodshed. The Corporal, to be sure, had all 
his ordinary work to carry, and more also; but, with 
every Trooper working twenty hours a day, and liable 
to call for emergency duty in the remaining four, he 
could count on his turn in the field with reasonable 
certainty. 

So came the 26th of March — a balmy Sunday 
afternoon, when the air was gay with the scent of 
spring, when a big blue sky full of sunshine and float- 
ing fleece smiled down on the broad blue river, while 
the river, twinkling back again, sang a new song to the 
sky and the world. 

All the people in Wilkes-Barre, all the people in the 
districts outlying, had been charmed into the open by 
the heavenly magic of the day. In the town hummed 
a ceaseless rumbling roar, low and heavy — the sound 
of motor- wheels on the bridges, as the crowds streamed 
out and in. Beyond, each road teemed with traffic. 



58 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Every person who owned a car, or who could borrow 
or hire a thing that resembled one, had produced the 
vehicle, filled it at least to capacity with his family 
to the third and fourth generation, with his friends, 
with his slightest acquaintances, and had voyaged 
abroad to view the earth. There seemed no end to 
them, nor any beginning either. From numbers alone 
they presented a traffic problem. And at this par- 
ticular time — a time of disorder, of ferment, of ab- 
normal idleness among the masses, that problem was 
complicated by an always attendant phenomenon — 
the excessive percentage of more or less drunken 
drivers bringing to naught the best cares of the sober 
rest. 

Within city limits the city police were struggling 
with the situation. Beyond that circle the State Police 
handled the work. And, to their common delight, 
Corporal Metcalf and Babe, on this perfect afternoon, 
had been assigned to service. 

They were detailed to traffic duty and general patrol 
in Midvale, adjoining Wilkes-Barre, where the main 
highway, emerging from the city, skirts the edge of a 
steep embankment. At the bottom of the embankment 
run the tracks of the Lehigh Valley Railroad. And it 
is well, in using the highway into Midvale, to remem- 
ber that pitching down lofty embankments hurts. 

Corporal Metcalf and Babe had been busy for half 
the afternoon persuading the general public to safety 
and order. And the general public still flowed on, like 
the waves in the sea, ever self -replacing, ever stranger 
to law. It was steady, sharp, lively work, this curbing 
the holiday world, and Babe and his Corporal had 



BABE 59 

needed all their eyes, all their skill and alertness to 
manage it; which was why it was fun. 

Now they were pacing at the cityward end of their 
beat, looking in upon the concentrated mass. 

" We can show 'em, Babe, can't we?" whispered the 
Corporal, stroking the silky neck, color and gloss of a 
chestnut just out of its burr. Babe put one small ear 
back to listen, then arched his neck a little higher, to 
show that he understood. And just at that moment 
something happened. i 

About six hundred yards ahead, and within the 
city limits, lay the entrance to a cemetery. A funeral 
had been in progress within, and now the carriages 
were emerging on their homeward road. One by one, 
decent and dingy, they jogged out, turned this way 
or that as they passed through the gate, and joined 
the general flood; until suddenly, heralded by a broken 
chorus of screams and shouts, surrounded by futile 
commotion, appeared the last of the cortege, a great, 
old-fashioned hack, moving not at a decorous funeral 
pace, but at full gallop. 

As it cleared the cemetery gate, the team whirled, 
turned to the left, away from the city, and broke into 
a dead run. At that the driver, who had been standing 
in his box, flung down his reins and jumped. 

The runaway team came thundering on. As it ap- 
proached the city line the natural trend of the traffic 
forced it to the extreme right, to the sheer and peril- 
ous edge of the embankment. And on the very line 
itself, where their field began, the Corporal and Babe 
hung ready. 

They had headed, of course, in the direction in 



60 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

which the team was travelling; they held to the far 
right — to the outer edge of the road; and, as the 
runaway neared, Corporal Metcalf snatched one 
glance at the windows of the coach. Faces, faces, all 
the faces there was room for — a man, an old woman, 
four younger women, a little girl — all blanched and 
distorted with terror — and the man madly and 
vainly struggling to open the door. 

Corporal Metcalf seized the off horse's bridle. 

Now, Babe knew as well as his master, every whit, 
the work cut out for the two of them that day. While 
the Corporal kept his steady restraining pull on the 
runaway's mouth, shoving the while away and away 
from the abyss, Babe, stretched out to a run, still 
shoved away and away, bearing his shining shoulder 
against the rusty black withers of the maddened 
beast. i 

But the team had acquired a terrible headway. 
And it was crazed. Meantime the slightest veer 
would send it crashing over the brink, dragging the 
coach and its helpless prisoners after. 

The prisoners screamed, shrieked, implored. The 
people in the crowded road screamed, shrieked, and 
shouted. The poor, frightened runaways, surrounded 
by Bedlam, could have no thought but flight. The 
sheer embankment waited — with its railway down 
below. And between all this and death flew Babe and 
Corporal Metcalf — those two. 

Babe was travelling on twelve inches of free ground, 
now, no more. And of that the outer quarter crum- 
bled. As they passed each successive telegraph pole, 
the Corporal had to snatch his foot out of the stirrup 



BABE 61 

lest his right leg be smashed in the sweeping impact. 
Always the drive of the team was toward the brink; 
always the Corporal's grip, dragging at the bridle, at 
the same time shoved inward; and always Babe, 
stretched to the run, sure-footed as an antelope, his 
delicate nostrils blown wide with excitement, drove 
his silky shoulder in and in against the shoulder of 
the fear-crazed runaway. 

At last grip and pressure began to tell. The off 
horse began to understand. "They're coming, Babe! 
Keep it up!" whispered the Corporal — and again 
the little ears turned to catch the words. 

But then swooped calamity out of the blue. As 
the off horse yielded, the other, pulling forward still 
unchecked, snapped a trace. With that it forged 
ahead, and, in its effort to escape the oncoming traf- 
fic, must in another moment have dragged its mate, 
coach and all, over the bank. 

For the fraction of an instant, while his hand flew 
to his holster, the Corporal considered shooting that 
nigh horse. But with the very thought came its 
answer : — 

"That would pile the whole thing up in a wreck." 

Meantime the people in the coach, seeing all, yet 
helpless, raved in their terror. 

"Save us! Save us!" they screamed. "Help us! 
Save us ! " — and clutched with their hands at the 
empty air. 

The whole highway screamed, jammed, swore, 
shouted, would have stampeded, but that, literally, 
there was no place to go. 

But Babe and Corporal Metcalf heard none of this 



62 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

emptiness. Their mind was on the job. A touch had 
given Babe his cue. As the Corporal released the off 
horse's head, Babe slowed up just a trifle, let the 
hack reel by, and then with a spurt shot forward on 
the inside, till the Corporal could seize the nigh run- 
away's bridle. 

Now for a fight for the lives of the multitude, a fight 
against wholesale slaughter. 

Down the long road ahead wound a thick, black 
stream of traffic. Wagons, buggies, surreys, motors 
of every size and kind, all packed with humanity, — 
with men, women, and children, — following each 
other, paralleling each other, with scarce a wagon's 
length between at best. On one side, the sheer em- 
bankment, with the railroad track below. On the 
other, no egress. Charging into the heart of it all 
rushed the big ark of a hack, with its helpless freight, 
dragged by the crazy pair. And to save the day 
bloodless, if perchance it could be saved, just Cor- 
poral Metcalf and little Babe — those two. 

Corporal Metcalf's hand, instinct with knowledge 
and reassurance, steady in grip and pull, kept the nigh 
runaway's bridle. Babe, holding the pace, was doing 
his part with a will. But the crowd ahead behaved, 
crowd-like, insanely. Instead of clearing a lane for 
the bolt to shoot through, each driver thought for 
himself alone — and thought wrong. Darting hither 
and yon as they guessed the team would veer, they 
left no fair space anywhere, so that Corporal Met- 
calf, lying along Babe's neck, must throw all his 
strength, as Babe threw all his weight, to guide their 
death-fraught projectile in and out the rapidly twist- 



BABE 63 

ing course thrust upon them. Uncountable times, by 
the barest hand's breadth, they saved some ghastly 
impact. Uncountable times, by supreme exertion, 
they steered their big convoy just clear of the teeth 
of death. Uncountable times they themselves escaped 
as by a miracle from being torn to pieces or ground 
to pulp. 

And always before them spread the river of faces 
— white, wide-eyed faces, panic-possessed, scream- 
ing, screaming. 

Now on the left, amidst a mass of smaller vehi- 
cles, approached a great, slow-moving motor dray, 
while, nearly abreast of it, filling the other side of the 
road, a bus full of holiday-makers lumbered along in 
the opposite direction. Corporal Metcalf, seeing the 
two, knew that he must find a way between. He set 
his teeth, threw his ultimate reserve of steady power 
into his grip, and, by the narrowest nicety, just suc- 
ceeded in guiding his team along the tortuous lane of 
safety. 

Then, with the next plunge their forefeet struck 
out a new sound, ringing hollow on the floor of a high 
viaduct. But their late manoeuvre had thrown them 
to the wrong side of the road — to the extreme left, 
toward the viaduct parapet. And now, directly before 
them, not twenty feet ahead, hugging the parapet, 
came a great, open touring-car full of women. Two 
had fainted, two stood up, preparing in their fright to 
jump over the wall into the depths beneath. The rest 
clutched the sides of their car, shrieking. 

"Sit down! Sit still!" shouted Corporal Metcalf. 
1 And then — Heaven knows how they did it! — he 



64 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

and Babe together turned that engine of ruin away 
from those women, although the curve bent so grimly 
sharp that the lamps of the car were swept off as they 
sped, and although again the Corporal, to save him- 
self alive, was obliged to ride in one stirrup. 

But the last ounce of strain unhorsed him, victo- 
rious though he was — dragged him to earth. And 
still the runaways thundered on, with the Trooper 
hanging at their bridles. 

Babe was out of it now — lost — gone. The man 
swinging at the heads of the frantic pair was alone 
in his desperate struggle. The faces in the coach win- 
dow were terrible to see. On and on swept the team. 
The Corporal's feet scarcely touched the earth. Yet 
he knew they were feeling him — knew he was gaining 
on them. They slackened — slackened — slackened 
— at last they stopped. 

Then a score of men rushed for their heads. Then 
some one tore open the door of the coach, whose lock 
had stuck fast. Then Richard Powell, of the Mine 
Workers' Union, his wife, his daughters, and their 
grandmother, seven persons in all, came tottering 
down from the coach to give thanks for their miracu- 
lous deliverance — to grasp the Corporal's hand. 

The Corporal, too, rejoiced, and from the bottom 
of his heart, that these people stood alive and whole. 
But from their thanks he turned aside, a little em- 
barrassed. Seven lives, on seven other occasions, he 
had saved through risk as great from death as immi- 
nent. But that had been merely his duty as he saw it. 

And the rescued had seen it, also, as merely his 
duty, no more. Corporal Metcalf was not used to 







*#»<* 



Thrust his Soft Nose over Corporal Metcalf's 
Shoulder 



BABE 65 

being thanked. Besides, that remained which touched 
him far closer. 

"Babe!" he called softly. "Where are you?" 
Then Babe, who, after their parting, had travelled 
each step of the way hard on the flank of the run- 
aways, pushed through — pushed close, and, with the 
breath of a whinny, thrust his soft nose over Corporal 
Metcalf 's shoulder. 



IV 

BIG MINE RUN 

BIG MINE RUN is nothing but a mining patch — 
a grimy nubbin of ugly shacks excrescent upon 
the soil of Schuylkill County some two miles out of 
Ashland. The population of the place, almost en- 
tirely Italian, comprises about five hundred persons 
— coal miners and their families, storekeepers of 
sorts, and a sprinkling of those less obviously em- 
ployed who commonly grace such communities. 

Toward five o'clock, on the afternoon of Sunday, 
January 30, 1916, as the Ashland trolley neared 
Woodland Park, on the skirts of Big Mine Run, a 
passenger on the front platform noticed a hat lying 
by the track. 

"That hat looks new," said he to the motorman. 
"Somebody's lost it. Let's stop and pick it up." 

The motorman good-naturedly halted. Then, a 
few yards farther on, they saw a man prostrate on 
the road, face downward. 

"Bah! Nothing but a drunk!" growled the motor- 
man. "Well, we may as well give him his hat, any- 
way, now we're at it." 

So the two walked over to the spot, and the enter- 
prising passenger laid his hand upon the sleeper's 
shoulder. With an exclamation, he snatched that hand 
back. It was wet with blood. The man was stone dead, 
although the warmth had not yet left his body. 



BIG MINE RUN 67 

Later, a deputy coroner in the neighboring town 
of Girardville telephoned "C" Troop Barracks that 
"an unknown Italian had been found dead, from 
wounds caused by revolver bullets, on the road near 
Big Mine Run at Woodland Park." 

The Captain of "C" Troop, Pennsylvania State 
Police, is a young man of marked characteristics. 
Among these characteristics are a passionate devo- 
tion to the ideals of the Force and to the leader that 
conceived and inspires them, a deep sense of justice, 
loyalty, and responsibility, and a power to elicit from 
good men full return for the confidence he puts in 
them. His command has a single pride — the honor 
of the Force; and a single ambition — to add to it. 
And down in the bottom of its heart hides a fixed 
idea — that "C" Troop is and must remain, even 
though only by a bit's-length, the best Troop in the 
Squadron. 

So, when Captain Wilhelm detailed Sergeant Har- 
vey J. Smith and Private Buono to proceed at once 
to Girardville and take up the case, he knew the ulti- 
mate results to be expected. 

Arriving at Girardville, the two officers examined 
the body — that of an Italian perhaps twenty-eight 
years old, well-built, slender, with a great shock of 
black hair tumbling over his closed eyelids. His 
wounds — four bullet wounds — indicated that his 
back had been turned squarely upon his assailant or 
assailants when the shots were fired. Three bullets 
had penetrated his body. The fourth had shattered 
the elbow of his right arm. 

Near the victim, as he lay in the road, had been 



68 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

found a 32-calibre Colt's automatic revolver, loaded. 
This revolver had not been fired recently, and its 
safety was caught, indicating that when the man 
snatched out his gun to protect himself he had not 
been able to release the trigger. In his belt was a scab- 
bard holding a dagger with a ten-inch blade. An 
examination of his pockets produced a watch, five 
dollars in cash, nine loaded revolver-cases fitting the 
weapon found near the body, and the unused parts 
of two railway tickets punched at the Pennsylvania 
Railroad Station at Johnstown, Pennsylvania, on 
January 28, 1916. 

The tickets read for passage on that railroad from 
Johnstown to Mount Carmel, and thence to Shenan- 
doah, by way of Centralia on the Lehigh Valley Road. 

The man was about five feet and seven inches tall, 
weighed one hundred and forty-five pounds, and was 
comfortably dressed. Thus far no one had identified 
him. 

The two Troopers opened their search at the settle- 
ment nearest the scene of the crime. Here inquiry 
among the people drew out the information that Rosa 
Borrusco, storekeeper, in whose house some ten 
Italians lodged, had but just taken into her family a 
strange Italian with a young wife. As the Troopers 
jumped off the trolley before Rosa Borrusco's shack, 
a very young woman with a baby in her arms, who 
stood hanging over the front gate, gave them one 
long terror-stricken look, then started to run as 
though afraid of bodily harm. 

Overtaking her, the Sergeant asked a few ques- 
tions, to which she returned little or no reply. Then 



BIG MINE RUN 69 

he showed her the half-used railway tickets, found 
in the dead stranger's pockets. 

"Where is my man?" demanded the girl, suddenly 
vehement. 

The Sergeant described to her the dead man, his 
clothing and appearance. 

"That," said she simply, "is Giuseppe Pangollo, 
my husband." 

Meantime Private Buono, delving rapidly, had 
unearthed the fact that one of the few Americans in 
the place could offer testimony perhaps related to 
the shooting. 

This man lived in the hollow of the hill, just below 
Woodland Park. On Sunday afternoon, being, as he 
now remarked, in a state of intoxication, he had sat 
for some hours at his bedroom window, patiently gaz- 
ing out upon the world until such time as the use of 
his legs should return to him. 

So situated, he took idle note of three Italians, stand- 
ing under the shed of the Woodland Park trolley sta- 
tion, and of a fourth loitering by the tool-box across 
the road. Then his attention wavily eclipsed, but was 
later revived by five revolver shots fired at close hand. 
Now from his window he saw three Italians running up 
through the Park, the last of whom turned as he ran 
and fired another shot in the direction of the road he 
had just quitted. 

The observer could not describe the Italians, how- 
ever, did not see the object of the fire, nor had he in 
any way attempted to discover the fruit of the fracas. 

"Drunk as I was at the toime, sor, 'tis lucky ye 
ar-re to recover as much as ye do from me!" he 



70 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

observed to the questioning officer with some indig- 
nation. And the officer fully agreed with him. 

While Buono was plucking this straw, Sergeant 
Smith had taken into custody Rosa Borrusco and all 
the inmates of her boarding-house. With a single 
exception, all denied knowledge of the dead man and 
of his wife. The exception was a young man called 
Domenico Niccolo. 

Niccolo spoke out with a degree of freedom. In 
the year 1913, he said, he had worked in a coal mine 
in Lowe, West Virginia. During that time he had 
boarded with the parents of Maria Mariano, the young 
girl with the baby in her arms, who said she was the 
wife of the man that was killed. Giuseppe Pangollo, 
sometimes known as Joe Valero, had been Niccolo's 
fellow-boarder in the Mariano house. He, Niccolo, 
had recently been surprised by receiving a letter from 
Maria inquiring as to opportunities for work in the Big 
Mine Run region, and stating that she and an un- 
named husband considered coming there to live. On 
Saturday, the day before the shooting, Maria had ap- 
peared in Big Mine Run, in company with Pangollo, 
whom, she alleged, she had met while on a visit to 
Italy eighteen months ago and had married there. 

All the Italians of Rosa Borrusco' s flock now cho- 
rused that they did not believe the story of the visit to 
Italy, nor that the two had been married at all; add- 
ing that they had seen Pangollo talking with some ut- 
terly strange men on Sunday afternoon; that after- 
ward, leaving Maria here in the house, he went away 
with the strangers; and that they never saw him again 
alive. 



BIG MINE RUN 71 

Investigation of Maria's room showed no luggage 
except a single suit-case. 

"Where is your trunk?" asked the Sergeant. 

"I think," said Maria, "at the railroad station." 

No railway station at any neighboring point, as 
was now proved, held any freight addressed to Pan- 
gollo. But the express office at Ashland held a trunk, 
a bed, and a mattress, shipped from Tony Delmeri, 
Johnstown, Pennsylvania, to Domenico Niccolo in Big 
Mine Run. 

These goods Maria identified as her own; neverthe- 
less, she steadily refused to release and receive them. 
Then she despatched a telegram to an Italian in 
Johnstown asking him to send money for the burial 
of her husband. 

"Maybe he send a little," she said to the others. 
"I have no money, I have nowhere to go. My man 
is dead. My father has closed his door. I have no- 
where to go with my baby." 

"You could stay here," said they, "for a while. 
The padrona asks no money the first days." 

So she lingered. 

The discovery that the luggage of the Pangollos 
was addressed to Niccolo evidently burst upon the 
latter as a complete and unpleasant surprise. Niccolo 
saw himself compromised in a situation that might 
easily be serious. He hastened to disclaim all sym- 
pathy with the affair. 

Pangollo, he affirmed, must be a crook. Evidently 
he was fleeing from some one's vengeance. Else why 
did he elaborately buy railway tickets from Johns- 
town all the way to Shenandoah, a point beyond his 



72 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

actual destination, and then sneak off the train far 
on the hither side, to complete the trip by trolley 
stages, as he had done? Maria knew the exact route 
to Big Mine Run. He, Niccolo, had carefully written 
it out for her. Then why had they conceived the de- 
vious course, unless it were to throw some pursuer 
off the track? 

But Maria, as to all this, knew nothing — nothing. 
Only, she repeated, she could never go home to her 
parents again. Forbidden. Impossible. And Maria 
was singularly calm. Also, she was beautiful. 

That night the State Police officers were permitted 
to examine the trunk in the express office. It con- 
tained clothing, a few dishes, a 30-30-calibre repeat- 
ing rifle of foreign make, and a number of photographs 
of the murdered man. 

"What you'd call a desperately handsome fellow," 
observed the Sergeant, studying the face by the light 
of the telegrapher's drop-lamp — "and liked being 
photographed, of course." 

Each card showed a young Sicilian, of fine physique, 
with a great shock of black hair and big dark eyes. 
But on one particular card this striking figure made 
the centre of a group of thirteen men, ranged along 
the veranda of a house. On the house door, behind 
the group, showed the figures "60." On the back of 
the card stood the name of the photographer, and 
his address — "Lowe, West Virginia." 

"I believe," wrote Sergeant Smith that night, re- 
porting to Captain Wilhelm, "that this case should 
be operated from Johnstown; and that an investiga- 
tion there and in Lowe would develop the plot out of 



BIG MINE RUN 73 

which the trouble started. The post-mortem shows 
the bullets in the murdered man's body to be lead, 
32-calibre." 

Now, Johnstown lies in the west of the State, in 
"A" Troop's territory. Captain Adams, command- 
ing "A" Troop, was therefore informed at once of the 
status of the case. Promptly cooperating, he detailed 
Private Sturm to the work, and presently forwarded 
to his brother-captain Private Sturm's first report. 

Giuseppe Pangollo, as thereby appeared, came to 
Johnstown from Cincinnati in October, 1915. Dur- 
ing his stay in Johnstown he had appeared to be in 
hiding. It was believed among the Italians there that 
he had come from West Virginia, and that he had run 
away with another man's wife. 

Captain Wilhelm now sent a copy of the mur- 
dered man's photograph to the Chief of Police of Cin- 
cinnati, and in due course received from that official 
information that the photograph strongly resembled 
one Joe or Giuseppe Pangollo, wanted in Cincinnati 
for the murder of an Italian, named Stillitano, in 
September, 1913. 

In the interval Sergeant Smith had been contem- 
plating the beauties of Big Mine Bun, chief among 
which, to his curious way of thinking, was the Bast 
Colliery's "rock dump." 

This phenomenon was an immense heap of coal ref- 
use, over fifty feet high. You could see it from every- 
where in the patch — and by the same token the two 
men always working on the dirty top of it could 
assuredly see you. 

These two, by chance, were Americans. And when 



74 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

the Sergeant, proceeding to visit them in his quiet, 
friendly, methodical way, asked : — 

"Will you keep a sharp eye out for anything new, 
and, if you see cause, get word to me?" 

"You bet," said the two, with alacrity. 

Not for many days, however, did this seed bear fruit. 
Then, on the 24th of February, came word that the 
rock-dump hands had something to tell. It was this: 

"See that small slush-stream down yon at the foot 
of the dump? That runnin' black with the dirt o' the 
coal, with the bit of a bridge crossin' over it? Well, 
about eleven o'clock this mornin', I seen a strange 
Italian come over that bridge, and turn himself round 
and climb down under it. And there he stood spying 
this way and yon, very cautious. 

"So I called Mike, here, and the two of us watched 
him. When he 'd made sure that no one was lookin' 
right nor left, forrard nor back, — he never thought 
to look upwards, you see, poor devil, — what does he 
do but creep up to the edge of the rock-bank, dig a 
small hole, and shove something in — something the 
size of yer two fists, as might be. Then he beats it. 

"Well, we waits till noon hour, and then we makes 
tracks for the spot where he buried his bone and we 
digs it up for him. And now yer got it yourself, there 
in yer hand, sir." 

That bone's outer skin was a blue polka-dotted 
handkerchief. Within lay four objects: — 

A Colt's "Police Positive" revolver, 32-calibre, 
bearing the maker's number, 126505. 

A Smith & Wesson six-shooter, 32-calibre, number 
213732, blue steel, hand-ejecting. 



BIG MINE RUN 75 

A United States nickel-plated revolver, 32-calibre. 

A razor with a peacock on the handle. 

"I rather think," observed Sergeant Smith, "that 
that chap, whoever he was, only meant to hide those 
guns, not to destroy them, and that he will return to 
look for them." 

"Gosh!" suddenly exclaimed the dump-hand. 
"See yonder! There's the very fellow himself — and 
— you're right, blessed if you ain't, he's makin' fer 
his cache! — See him dig, the tarrier! He misses it! 
See him go for it ! — Now he 's scared — he 's quittin ! ' 
Oh, oh, look at him run!" 

The man dashed down the road a bit, broke through 
some bushes, and disappeared. But in a moment he 
was out again, flying back for the dump. 

Sergeant Smith and Private Buono, well out of 
sight, moved softly and swiftly down and around 
into the shadow of the bridge. There they took into 
their keeping one Rocco Rizzi, a figure new to the 
play. 

Violently protesting that he knew nothing of the 
matter afoot, that he had hidden no revolvers nor any 
polka-dotted package, Rizzi, nevertheless, was quietly 
removed to Schuylkill County Jail and there commit- 
ted without bail — on a formal charge of carrying con- 
cealed deadly weapons. 

That night Maria left the padrona's. "Tony says 
he'll take care of me — me and the baby," she told 
the others, bidding them good-bye. "I can carry the 
baby and the suit-case too, till Tony meets me. And 
I'll write for the trunk and the bed when we get 
there." 



76 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"' There'? Where?" asked one of another after she 
had disappeared into the dingy dark. 

"Where? / don't know. Tony who?" 

"/don't know." 

"She's only a slip of a girl to be without friends 
or kin," said one. 

"Not seventeen yet, she told me." 

"Would it be Tony Froio?" 

"Who knows — there are many Tonys. Are you 
tired of life, then? Have you no affairs of your own to 
think of?" 

Now, of the three deadly weapons concealed by 
Rocco Rizzi, two were good ones. And a good revolver, 
like a good watch, is a thing that, through all its public 
career, leaves a record behind it. The number on a 
good revolver is preserved by each succeeding dealer, 
in every account of sale and shipment. By it can be 
determined its age, and also, upon occasion, the name 
of the individual who may have returned it for repairs 
to the makers. 

Sergeant Smith, therefore, without loss of time, 
despatched a letter of inquiry to the Smith & Wesson 
Fire Arms Manufacturing Company of Springfield, 
Massachusetts, and another to the Colt Fire Arms 
Company at Hartford, Connecticut. 

Smith & Wesson sent back their reply by return 
of mail: Their 32-calibre six-shooter, number 213732, 
was sold July 9, 1915, to the Belknap Hardware & 
Manufacturing Company of Louisville, Kentucky. 

The Colt Company, four days later, responded 
that their 32-calibre "Police Positive," number 



BIG MINE RUN 77 

126505, had been shipped on May 15, 1915, to the 
Bluefield Hardware Company of Bluefield, West 
Virginia. 

Both guns were now traced on the first stage of their 
adventures. 

So Sergeant Smith wrote two more letters, and, 
knowing the leisure of the South, soothed his soul to 
patience. In ten days' time returned the word of the 
Louisville firm : They had sold the six-shooter, August 
31, 1915, to Mr. D. H. Conner, merchant, of Giatto, 
West Virginia. 

Later came the news that the Bluefield concern had 
passed on the Colt's "Police Positive" to the Weya- 
noke Coal & Coke Company's store. And the address 
of that store was Lowe, West Virginia. 

"Huh!" observed Buono, and "Huh!" answered 
Smith, as they noted the fact. 

And so the two good guns yielded their second 
chapter of biography. 

Again Sergeant Smith sat down to his pen. Again 
he wrote two letters, the first to Mr. D. H. Conner, of 
Giatto, the second to the Weyanoke Coal & Coke 
Company. 

After some days Mr. Conner responded: His tale 
was a tale of sadness. He had sold that very six- 
shooter early in December to an unknown Italian, 
who had come into his shop with Frank Dini. Frank 
Dini was known in the community. He was a coal 
miner. When Mr. Conner refused to trust his friend, 
" Charge the gun to me," Dini had said. " I will settle 
next Company pay-day." 

But now, on the 14th of March, the account still 



78 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

stood unsettled, and Frank Dini and his unknown 
companion had fled the State ! Incidentally, remarked 
Mr. Conner, Dini had been employed by the Weya- 
noke Coal & Coke Company. 

Meantime, the Weyanoke Coal & Coke Company 
had sent in its reply. It stated that the Colt "Police 
Positive" revolver number 126505 was sold at the 
Company store, November 17, 1915, to an Italian 
named Antonio Froio. This man, it briefly added, 
had got into trouble near Lowe on December 20, 1915, 
and had immediately fled to the North. 

And so, in the third authoritative chapter of their 
history did the two good guns reveal themselves as 
in private hands. 

In the interval, and as soon as the name of the Wey- 
anoke Coal & Coke Company appeared in the corre- 
spondence, Sergeant Smith mailed to the superinten- 
dent of that concern a copy of the large photograph 
found in the murdered Pangollo's trunk — the photo- 
graph showing the victim as the central figure in a 
group of thirteen men, taken on the veranda of a 
house whose street number was "60," by a photo- 
grapher of Lowe. 

In a reasonable time this photograph was returned 
with each figure numbered and with the numbers 
supplemented, on the reverse, by the names of the 
individuals portrayed. "Domenico Futtiatutti, alias 
Valero, alias Joe Pangollo, reputed Black-Hander 
and bad character," stood written against the cen- 
tral number, while the three immediately surrounding 
it also indicated supposed Black-Handers and bad 
men. 



BIG MINE RUN 79 

Rocco Rizzi, burier of bones, sitting without ap- 
pearance of impatience in the Schuylkill County Jail, 
steadfastly denied everything, inclusively every- 
thing, until the 19th of March. Then he suddenly 
began to speak. It was to Trooper Buono that he 
unbosomed himself — and his tale, verbatim, was 
this : — 

"I know nothing of the actual murder. I was away 
over in Frackville the night it was done. I came to 
live in Big Mine Run after that time. I did hide 
the revolvers and the razor, but I only had them 
over-night — that night, you know, two weeks after 
Pangollo was killed. 

"This is the way it was: I was going over the hill to 
Rosa Borrusco's store to get some groceries when I 
met four men. Three I knew. The fourth I did not 
know. The three were Pietro Santucci, Pietro Tia- 
foro, and Jim Petrello. Santucci said: — 

' ' Here, take these guns and keep them for me.' 

"I told them I was afraid. He handed me the pack- 
age, placed his finger on his lips, and said : — 

"'Silence, or it will be the worse for you.' 

"I did not know what to do with them, so I hid 
them in the rock-dump. I had known the three men 
in Matoaka and in Lowe, West Virginia. Now they 
have all gone back to Lowe." 

Sergeant Smith and Trooper Buono, armed with 
warrants for Pietro Santucci, Pietro Tiaforo, Jim 
Petrello, and Antonio Froio, charged with murder, 
now departed for West Virginia. Here, in and about 
Lowe, the two officers soon developed certain facts; 
as, that the three men first named on the warrants 



80 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

were unknown in that region; and that Jim Pe- 
trello, so called by the bone-burier, was identical with 
Frank Dini, recorded as having misleadingly stood 
good for the six-shooter sold early in December to 
the stranger in Mr. Conner's store. 

Also, that the stranger in whose behalf the six- 
shooter had thus been fraudulently obtained was one 
Tony or Antonio Froio. 

Further, that on December 20, 1915, Tony Froio, 
Jim Petrello, alias Frank Dini, Pasquale Diolatti, 
and another man, shot a man at Modac, West Vir- 
ginia, forthwith escaping across the Pennsylvania 
line. 

So much and more also the searchers patiently 
threaded out of the obscure fabric before them. Deli- 
cately they worked, with nice advances and refrain- 
ings. Incidentally, and as a precaution, they caused 
themselves to be appointed deputy sheriffs of the 
West Virginia County at the moment their province. 

Side by side with other opening scrolls the two 
Troopers were now unrolling the past of the murdered 
Pangollo. Such of it as had lain within the West Vir- 
ginia community was first retraced. Early in the win- 
ter of 1914, himself a murderer, with the blood of 
his victim hot upon his hands, Pangollo had fled 
from Cincinnati into West Virginia. Drifting into 
Lowe as a stranger, he had gone to the house of one 
Pasquale Mariano to lodge. Here he had first seen 
Maria Mariano, then only just past her thirteenth 
year, but lovely with the promise of beauty even at 
that tender age. 

Months passed, and with them the little creature 



BIG MINE RUN 81 

blossomed and ripened as only a girl of the urgent 
Southern blood can do. Pangollo watched her with 
nascent interest. Italian girls were few among those 
hills. But the child was a child, and oblivious of him. 
And he had a pirate's heart. 

Work, to a man of Pangollo's type, has no signif- 
icance except as a mask for the chosen business of 
life. Here he scarcely pretended to work. Conditions 
were such that no mask was needed. 

With the outlaw fluid that ran in his veins ran also 
the instinct of leadership. He chose his gang with 
skill, — the gang whose picture he had carried away 
with him, — and, after certain grisly demonstrations 
of the weight of his displeasure when opposed, easily 
reigned as a Black Hand King, feeding upon levies 
brought in by his henchmen. 

One man there was, however, who threatened his 
preeminence. Antonio Froio, younger than Pangollo, 
but fully his match in reckless outlawry, not only 
refused to bend to him, but, with growing insolence, 
threatened his supremacy in his own field. 

Froio was building a throne of his own. There was 
scarcely room in any community for two of such ar- 
rogant mind. And each knew in his heart that the time 
would come when blood must flow between them. 

Meantime, little Maria was ripening fast. Pan- 
gollo's eyes were filled with her. But her parents would 
not give her into his hand. Neither did the girl her- 
self seem to notice him. How could this be? Some- 
times she laughed the simple laughter of children with 
Domenico Niccolo, that sheep ! Perhaps she schemed. 
Perhaps she secretly thought of Froio. 



82 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Froio! Per Baccho, die insolenza! She, was she not 
the Bang's own perquisite, this one most beautiful 
creature in all the hills? Should Froio get her? Should 
her miserable parents have the pleasure of withhold- 
ing her? He would kill them all, first. Stick them in 
the back, once, twice, thrice and a twist, like impu- 
dent pigs that they were! 

But then, in the depths of the Ultimate Pit they 
might escape some part of the fulness of his ven- 
geance! 

And so, with these things burning in his pirate's 
brain, on a black winter's night — it was the 9th of 
January, 1915 — Pangollo waylaid the child in a 
lonely place, frightened her into silence, dragged her 
away on foot, across country to the railway station 
at Rorthf ork, whence the two disappeared from ken. 

If the man had been of another stamp, — if human 
life had meant anything in his eyes, — you could 
have said that the blood he had spilled bewitched 
him. Else why, after months of ceaseless wanderings, 
did he drift back to Cincinnati, the very scene of his 
crime? 

There Maria still shrank from him — tried in terror 
to conceal her hatred — found means at last to write 
to her parents, begging for help to go home. But the 
letter came back unopened. And then again Pan- 
gollo's restless spirit hurried him away. So that, 
dragging the girl after him, he wandered over the 
Pennsylvania hills into Johnstown, where their child 
was born. 

Then Maria wrote again to her parents — poor, 
pretty little pawn. "He took me away by force, sud- 



BIG MINE RUN 83 

denly, even without my clothes. But he will not 
marry me. And he will not let me have the child bap- 
tized. Help me save it from Purgatory. I beg you to 
forgive me. Let me come home." 

What had they to forgive? 

But Pangollo's vengeance bit into their souls. He 
had shamed them before their world. He had set their 
will aside. He had deprived them of all their dignity, 
all their proper profits in due disposal of the girl. 
Now, more, he had made her a byword and a mockery 
to them. He would not marry her ! 

Should they, then, take back his dishonored leav- 
ings into their home? Their resentment flamed too 
high for the cloak of silence. 

"No," they flung back. "We have no place here 
for bastards or mothers of bastards. Look after your- 
self. This door is closed." 

Then again, when the child was three months old, 
the fever took Pangollo. To Maria he issued his 
command: — 

"Domenico Niccolo, the quiet fellow that used to 
board with your father — that Domenico Niccolo went 
to Ashland, over to the east. Write to him now — 
tell him you are married. Ask him if men make good 
money in his place. Tell him if they do your husband 
will come there to work" — and he leered at her, 
knowing that even she understood what manner of 
"work" appealed to a throneless Black Hand King. 

Meantime, back in the West Virginia mining town, 
Antonio Froio had risen with unexpected ease to the 
coveted supremacy. From the day of Pangollo's flight 
he, as head of his own gang, ruled the field. No more 



84 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

did he soil his hands with work, for reasons invisible 
waxing in sleek prosperity. So all went well with him 
until the eleventh day of the eleventh month after 
Pangollo's departure. 

On that day, the 20th of December, 1915, Tony 
Froio, with Frank Dini, Pasquale Diolatti, and an- 
other of his gang, in shooting a man who had dared 
to cross them, tossed off the deed so carelessly that for 
the nonce they thought well to fly even the easy ju- 
risdiction of West Virginia. 

"Where shall we go?" asked the three of Tony, 
their lord. 

"Where did that sheep Domenico Niccolo go, one 
year or more past?" asked Tony. "Wherever he 
went men slave and have fat purses. Ashland? We'll 
skip for Ashland." 

So these four also took to flight — and the name of 
ihe fourth among them was Rocco Rizzi, a name we 
have heard before. 

So much did Sergeant Smith and Private Buono 
personally discover — or shrewdly surmise, here a bit 
and there a bit, gleaning over the field at large, or 
down among the Italians of Lowe. 

Not that the Italians of Lowe were one whit less 
afraid to testify, one whit less bound by race loyalties, 
one whit less close-mouthed, cautious, and devious 
than their like elsewhere — not that they consciously 
betrayed such matters, whether with lips or eyes or 
hands. But Sergeant Smith has a wise and wily head, 
deep experience, enduring patience; Private Buono's 
excellent wits, stimulated by an apt and agile imagina- 
tion, enjoy the command of all Italian dialects; and 



BIG MINE RUN 85 

both were working for the honor of " C " Troop, Penn- 
sylvania State Police. 

Maria Mariano's father saw in the Troopers two 
insurance agents trying to find his daughter in order 
to pay an insurance policy carried by her late hus- 
band in her favor. Mariano, tardily, began to repent 
something of his harshness to the girl. He even wrote 
to her that she might return to him, sending the letter 
to Ashland, the address she had last given. But it 
came back to him — "Not found." 

Now, he said, he would bestir himself. He would 
write to every friend to whom his daughter might 
appeal. He would find her address, and he would give 
it, when found, to the Manager of the Weyanoke 
Coal & Coke Company, for the insurance agents' use. 

But the "insurance agents" did not trust him 
wholly. They surrounded his possible intention with 
an invisible net of care. And when they presently 
withdrew from the scene they left every avenue of 
mail out of Lowe and of all adjacent places "covered" 
by machinery that would echo in their own ears at 
the passing of letters to any of the persons concerned 
in the case. 

Returning to Pennsylvania, and to Schuylkill 
County Jail, they again questioned the prisoner — 
Rocco Rizzi, burier of bones. By the light of the 
knowledge now in their possession, the State Troopers 
gained significance in his eyes. Better begin making 
friends with such men. 

"I lied," said Rocco easily. "I did know the fourth 
man of the four who made me bury those guns. His 
name was Antonio Froio." 



86 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

In the little village of Frackville, close to Big Mine 
Run, lived one Joe Rizzi, cousin to the bone-burier. 
This man was a cobbler well established in the com- 
munity. As a citizen of substance, with savings in the 
bank, and with a good business to protect, Joe Rizzi 
knew that his true interests lay not with law- 
breakers, whatever the terror of their name, but with 
the Law. Also, that the law-breaker pursued by the 
State Police, while possibly varying the length of his 
rope, found always a noose at the end of it. Already 
the line of the Troopers' inquiry had skirted his door 
too close for his comfort. Now it entered in. Under 
its thrust he decided to speak. This, in brief, is the 
story he told, cautiously — with reserves — with 
semi-truths, according to his blood: — 

On the day that Pangollo was killed, he, the cob- 
bler, had gone, basket on arm, to Rosa Borrusco's shop 
in Big Mine Run to buy some stores. 

Shortly after his arrival, Tony Froio, a recent comer 
to the settlement, walked into the house in company 
with a stranger, Pangollo. The stranger seemed almost 
quarrelsome. 

"'Oh, come now, sit down,' argued Tony. 'Sit 
down and have something to eat with me.' 

"'Eat with you!' cried Pangollo. 'I'll have your 
blood before this day is done!' And then he scowled 
blackly upon a girl, yes, a beautiful girl — Italian — 
who sat listening and cowering at Rosa Borrusco's 
side. 

"Then this Pangollo went out on the porch alone 
and began pacing to and fro. And Froio laughed to 
himself. And I went home to be out of it. I was afraid, 



BIG MINE RUN 87 

and heard no more till that night when they said that 
Pangollo was killed. 

"And it was Tony Froio that gave the three guns to 
Rocco, my cousin, — Antonio Froio and nobody else.. 
And I believe it was Tony that killed that man — 
Pangollo, the stranger." 

"... If we take this chap up to jail and let him have 
a little talk with his cousin — ? " reflected Buono. 

"Exactly," said Smith. 

After that little talk, the burier of bones expanded, 
by yet another link. 

"I lied, also," he remarked ingenuously, "when I 
said there were three men with Tony Froio the time 
he gave me those guns. There was no one with Tony 
Froio. He came alone. It was the day you got the 
bundle out of the rock-bank. He said he had just 
shot at two men and missed them, and that I must 
hide his guns until he wanted them again. I was 
afraid. We are all afraid not to do what Tony Froio 
says. Because Tony stops at nothing at all." 

"But I," volunteered Joe the cobbler, the man of 
vested interests, desiring the friendship of the Law 
— "I will help you. I will work for you. I believe that 
Tony Froio, taking the girl with him, has gone to New 
York. Let us go to New York together. I will lead 
you — you shall seize him as he hides." 

For Joe felt in his heart that these two quiet sol- 
diers in mufti, being wholly familiar with the psychol- 
ogy of his like, were in no way deceived by his protes- 
tations of frankness — were merely biding their time 
with him. The vision that he saw when he closed his 
eyes filled his veins with ice. 



88 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

How should he clear himself? By truly telling all the 
truth? The thing was impossible to him. And, fly 
that he was on the rim of the wheel, he knew that these 
terrible Troopers understood that also. 

Once, while Buono was yet a first enlistment man, 
worrying at a case with all his young heart and mind, 
he brought home a certain statement extracted from 
a man of this sort. Repeating it carefully to the 
Barracks reserve, he finished with pride: "And I be- 
lieve the fellow was speaking the truth." 

"Son," commented the First Sergeant, between 
draughts on his good-night pipe, "listen to me: There 
is just one time, with any of these people, when you 
might properly act on that hypothesis of yours; that 
time is when your man confesses to murder and produces 
corroborative evidence" 

And every old-timer in the room grinned acqui- 
escence. 

"Yes, sir," said Buono meekly, to those assembled 
elders in mass. 

And he never forgot it. Nor do the elders expect 
to speak twice. 

So, not visibly in company, the two Troopers and 
the cobbler moved upon the city of New York. First 
to a Mulberry Street house, then to several places 
on Mott Street, then to Brooklyn, the cobbler led the 
hunt, but without success. 

"No good. About eight months ago Tony Froio 
shot a man in Brooklyn," at last reported the friend of 
the Law, crestfallen. "He will scarcely come back so 
soon." 

This was on April 8th. 



BIG MINE RUN 89 

The Troopers returned to Pennsylvania, working 
on other leads — working, too, on unallied quests en- 
trusted to their care; each rubbing down his horse at 
night, each cleaning stall and accoutrements of a 
morning with well-trained hands, while his mind 
wrestled ceaselessly with plots and mystifications. 

Then, on April 24th, came the first fruits of the 
traps .set upon the mails of West Virginia. The Ital- 
ians living in the house of Pasquale Mariano, in Lowe, 
said the message, were sending letters to Syracuse 
and to Fulton in New York; to Plainfield and West- 
field in New Jersey; and to Cincinnati. And the full 
addresses on these letters were appended. Further, 
Pasquale Mariano himself had received a letter post- 
marked "Port Richmond, N.Y." 

Next came the news that twice a week Pasquale 
was receiving letters from Port Richmond, although 
none were going thither from Lowe or from any of 
the neighboring post-offices. How else might mail go 
out? Through mail clerks on the trains? 

Again their machine fulfilled its purpose and the 
Troopers learned that twice a week a little Italian 
child was handing letters to a railway mail clerk 
at a small station on the Virginian road — letters 

addressed: "Mrs. Maria Mariano, Box 88, B y 

Avenue, Staten Island, N.Y." 

The scene now shifted back to the East. Without 
the loss of an hour, Smith and Buono returned to New 
York, to Staten Island, to determine the location of 
Box 88. Box 88 proved to be a wayside receptacle far 
out on a country road, and owned by the keeper of 
a hotel in the locality. Several Italians, habitues of 



90 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

his tavern or dwelling roundabout, received their 
mail through this man's agency. The address, there- 
fore, was somewhat indefinite. 

The Troopers did not want to alarm the caution 
of the innkeeper by inquiring of him directly. To do 
so would have been to arouse all his race loyalty, 
all his fear of nameless complications and conse- 
quences. So, incognito, they watched the scattered 
Italian settlement. Three days and nights they 
watched it, without fruit. Meanwhile they arranged 
that the rural mail-carrier should present a regis- 
tered letter slip at the hotel office, for Maria. 

"Where is this person?" asked the postman, slip 
in hand. 

"I don't know," answered the innkeeper. 

"But," persisted the postman, "here is the address 
— your address. Can't you find the woman?" 

"I don't know," replied the wily Italian. "If you 
send the letter here I'll see that she gets it. That's 
all I can do for you." 

Then the two officers reversed their tactics. De- 
claring themselves openly, they pounced upon the 
innkeeper with all brusqueness, demanding to know 
what he had done with letters addressed to Maria Ma- 
riano. What? 

The man stood trembling before them. Conflicting 
fears held him helpless and confused. 

"Get your hat and coat," ordered Smith. 

"But — but — it was not I, it was the dish-washer 
that carried the letters away." 

"Then call the dish-washer." 

Now thoroughly scared, the two men became 



BIG MINE RUN 91 

slightly communicative. Maria Mariano, with her 
husband and baby, lived, they said, in the house of 
another Italian, about half a mile from the inn. They 
had taken some rooms — were housekeeping. Maria's 
husband worked at the linoleum factory about four 
miles from Port Richmond. 

"If you should be lying, now — " breathed Buono, 
vaguely suggestive. He had watched the trolley at 
the linoleum factory for two mornings and two nights. 
But one Italian got on and off at that station. 

"How does this man get to his work?" he con- 
cluded sharply. 

"By a bicycle by the back road." 

"We'll see," said Smith, "and meantime, just to 
make sure that no changes take place behind us, we'll 
hobble this team." 

They took their two hostages straight to a neigh- 
boring police box in which an officer of the New York 
City force is always to be found. Into the keeping 
of New York police officials, upon whose full and 
friendly cooperation the Troopers of the sister State 
have found they can always rely, they now handed 
the dish-washer and his padrone. 

Then they sped for the linoleum plant, to inspect 
its books. Five Italians had entered service there 
during the past two weeks. 

"Will you let me see these men?" asked Smith. 

"Sure," said the foreman; "come on over into the 
shop." 

The first Italian that they saw was Antonio Froio. 

Tony lifted his handsome head at the shadow of 
men before him and looked the two officers straight 



92 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

in the eye. Slowly, then, a great shiver ran through 
him. It was like a wave of relief, and you could see 
that a tension died out of his frame. 

"I'm glad you've come," he said simply — "I'm 
glad you've come. I suppose you want me for mur- 
der — because I went away with Maria." 

Then, when they had put him in safety, they went 
to look for the girl. 

In a shack in the woods they found her — a little 
one-and-a-half -story shack. As Sergeant Smith stood 
in the door no one was visible. 

"Maria!" he called, in his quiet, kindly voice. 

"Ecco mi! 99 came the answer, quick and light, as 
Maria's lovely face appeared at the top of the ladder 
leading to the room above. In perfect calm she gazed 
down at him, smiling slightly, gently. 

"I knew you would come to-day," she said. 

"How?" 

"I dreamed it last night. I knew it all the time. 
You got Tony? Yes, I know, I know." 

Before leaving the shack the Sergeant, looking it 
over, found an excellent 38-calibre revolver, all cham- 
bers filled. 

But the girl's one concern was : — 

"My baby — my baby. You know my little baby 
has not been baptized?" 

"Your baby shall be baptized," exclaimed the Ser- 
geant, — "shall be! Do you understand? Baptized 
to-night. Don't fret about that any more. He shall go 
to the Sisters. They will look after him well for you 
till you want him again." 

Without a question the girl accepted the comfort 



BIG MINE RUN 93 

that her instinct told her she could trust. That night 
the baby slept in the Guardian Angels' Home, saved 
from the pains of Purgatory — and that night Tony 
Froio, in his cell, tried in vain and by a very terrible 
method to end his life. 

But Maria, faintly smiling, sat silent in the nimbus 
of an incredible calm. 

The arrests of Maria and Tony occurred on the 18th 
of May. On May 19th, Privates Buono and Flint, 
of " C " Troop, State Police, arrested Frank Dini, down 
in the dripping black alleys of a coal mine, twelve 
hundred feet below ground. Following clues picked 
up in West Virginia, Buono had discovered, weeks 
ago, where he could lay hands at will, not only upon 
Dini, but also upon Pasquale Diolatti, who, with 
Rizzi the bone-burier, had fled out of the South after 
Tony the King, a charge of murder at their heels. 
Every movement of the two had been known to the 
Troopers, from day to day. But no obvious notice 
had been taken of them until Tony should be caught, 
lest Tony take alarm. At this stage, however, Dini 
could safely be jailed, as a material witness. 

Now, with Tony in prison, Joe Rizzi the cobbler 
judged the chances of safety to indicate further obla- 
tion to the Law. "I dared not tell all the truth before. 
With Tony loose it was too great a risk. They would 
have killed me. But now I will tell you everything. 
Listen : — 

"The day that Pangollo was murdered, I went to 
Rosa Borrusco's store. I saw Pangollo and Tony Froio 
quarrelling together. I saw Pangollo, very angry, go 
outside, and walk up and down on the porch, talk- 



94 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

ing to himself in a rage. Then I left the place. So 
much I told you before, and it is true. 

"But I lied when I said I saw no more that day. 
That afternoon, a little before the shooting of Pan- 
gollo, I saw Tony Froio, Joe Froio his cousin, and 
Domenico Fruscu — those three together — coming 
toward the trolley station at Woodland Park. 

"I know no more. But I think that Joe Froio and 
Domenico Fruscu are in Syracuse, New York." 

Now, Joe Froio and Domenico Fruscu, familiars of 
the wider circle of Big Mine Run, had already been 
in the Troopers' hands — arrested while planning to 
leave the settlement immediately after Pangollo's 
death. The Troopers definitely suspected them, but, 
for lack of evidence at that time, could not keep them 
under arrest. They had followed the later movements 
of the pair, however; knew that they had gone to 
Syracuse; and had gradually piled up a collection of 
addresses in that place — addresses at which the sus- 
pects, when wanted, might be found. 

Incidentally, they had discovered that Joe the 
cobbler, friend of the Law, must possess a knowledge 
of Syracuse that might prove useful — that Joe, in 
fact, had once lived in Syracuse for a considerable 
time, part of which he had passed in prison, convicted 
of larceny and of carrying concealed deadly weapons. 

On May 26th, Judge Tiernan, of the County of 
Richmond, New York, pursuant to a writ for extra- 
dition and in accordance with section 827 of the 
Criminal Procedure of the State, gave over the per- 
sons of Antonio Froio and Maria Mariano into the 
hands of Sergeant Smith and Private Buono. 



BIG MINE RUN 95 

"Only let me have my hamhino" begged Maria, 
when they told her that once more she must move 
on. 

So the good Sisters came to her, bringing the child, 
clothed now in dainty and ample garments, and, with 
words of gentle comfort, laid him in her arms. 

On the way back to Pennsylvania, Tony spoke 
little. But once he said : — 

"Have you got my cousin, Joe Froio, and Domenico 
Niccolo? They fired the shots that killed Pangollo, 
not I." 

Later, in the Schuylkill County Jail, in the pres- 
ence of District Attorney Charles A. Whitehouse, of 
Sergeant Smith, and of Private Buono, Tony denied 
every damaging accusation. 

"I did purchase the Colt * Police Positive' re- 
volver at the Weyanoke Coal & Coke Company Store 
at Lowe. But I sold it last October to my cousin, 
Joe Froio. 

"I never bought a revolver at Conner's store in 
Giatto, which Frank Dini stood good for. 

"I was not in a shooting scrape in Modac, West 
Virginia, on December 20, 1915. 

"On the day of the murder at Big Mine Run, I 
asked Pangollo to have something to eat with me. He 
refused. I then went for a walk by myself. When I 
came back, I heard he was killed. 

"Two days after the murder, as I was coming up 
the steps of Rosa Borrusco's house, I heard Joe Froio, 
my cousin, and Domenico Fruscu and Domenico 
Niccolo talking inside. 

"'We won't run away now,' they said/ 'The State 



96 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Troopers have let us go. They don't seem to have 
any suspicions at all.' 

"Then my cousin Joe said: 'I had the Special and 
got a good shot at him.' 

"Fruscu said: 'I had only the little revolver and 
could n't do much.' " 

After which Tony was returned to the solitude of 
his cell. 

The prisoner, Frank Dini, was now questioned: — 

"I was in Lowe, on December 20th," he affirmed. 
"Tony Froio, Pasquale Diolatti, and I did shoot a 
man in Modac on that day. All three of us fired. Tony 
was using a Smith & Wesson six-shooter that he got 
and that I stood good for at Mr. Conner's store in 
Giatto. After that shooting, five of us ran away 
North. We came to Big Mine Run on Christmas 
Eve." 

But when Dini, brought face to face with Tony 
Froio in the office of the jail, repeated this statement, 
Tony categorically denied all. 

"How, then," asked Sergeant Smith, "did you 
regain possession of the revolver that you bought in 
West Virginia? Where did you get the revolvers that 
you gave to Rocco to bury? " 

"On February 24th last," Tony replied, "I went 
out into the woods with Domenico Niccolo, Joe 
Froio, my cousin, and Domenico Fruscu. These 
three, after taking me into the woods, drew revolvers 
and started to fire on me. I ran and fell down, to 
deceive them. I suppose they thought they had killed 



me. 



Later I saw them hide the guns and a razor under 



BIG MINE RUN 97 

a rock. I watched them from the window of an old 
house. Then, when they were gone, I stole out, got 
the guns and the razor, and gave them to Rocco to 
keep for me. 

"The next day I wanted the revolvers, so I sent to 
Rocco to get them. He came back and told me they 
were gone. Then we both went to hunt, but could not 
find them. 

"On February 26th I left for New York with 
Maria." 

Then Maria was questioned. 

"What can I say!" sighed she. "While we lived 
in the woods, over there in New York, Tony told me 
he did the murder. Again, he told me that it was not 
true — that he had only been fooling me. What can 
I say? What do I know?" 

Later, of her own accord, she sent a message to Ser- 
geant Smith, begging him to come to her in her cell. 
Sergeant Smith had been always gentle with her, and 
she had known but little gentleness in her life. And 
he had got her baby baptized! She felt very lonely 
and apart. She would like to talk a little, to his friendly 
face. 

She detailed to him the story of her life as Pan- 
gollo's companion — the story of their rapid moves 
from point to point, as his restless mind, or purpose 
foiled, or some fresh act of guilt drove him on; told of 
the birth of the baby, and dwelt again on Pangollo's 
steadfast refusal to let its soul be saved — partly for 
love of tormenting her parents, partly because he 
feared the inevitable questioning of the priest and 
what it might uncover; told of their arrival in Mount 



98 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Carmel, near Big Mine Run, on the night of January 
28th, and of Pangollo's bestowal of her and the baby 
in the house of the brother of a member of Pangollo's 
West Virginia gang; told of her remaining alone there 
that night, and of Pangollo's reappearance next day 
in company with Domenico Niccolo and Tony Froio, 
both of whom she had seen in her father's house in 
Lowe, before Pangollo stole her away — before her 
troubles began; told how, in company with these 
and other men, she had gone on the trolley to Big 
Mine Run, and how Tony Froio had spoken to her 
kindly on the way — spoken about Lowe, her father, 
and the baby, — while Pangollo seemed strangely 
brooding; told of their arrival at Rosa Borrusco's 
house that night; told how, the next noon, in the pa- 
drona's place, when Tony invited Pangollo to eat, 
Pangollo refused with fury; told how all the men then 
drifted out of the house, singly or in groups, and how, 
later, looking from the window, she saw Pangollo and 
three others going up the road together. Their backs 
were turned; therefore she did not recognize them. 
After that she saw Pangollo no more. 

"Then, you said Pangollo was dead. ... I had no 
place to go. . . . My father would not have me. . . . 
There was no place to go. . . . And by and by Tony 
said he would take me and my baby. 

"So, I went with Tony." 

That day, Sergeant Smith's regular report to his 
Troop Captain contained these words: — 

"I do not think that it will be necessary to for- 
ward the description and addresses we have to the 
Police Department of Syracuse, as Private Buono 



BIG MINE RUN 99 

and I will be able to identify the men. And, better 
still, if it were possible to take Joe Rizzi along, he 
could help us to locate the two; and their arrest would 
be a simple matter if they are either in that city or in 
Fulton, New York." 

Joe Rizzi the cobbler, now thoroughly scared by 
the visible tightening of the net of the Law, alacri- 
tously agreed to do as he was asked. Carrying Joe 
with them the two Troopers betook themselves once 
more across the border. 

Quick and true they struck into the seething, hiving 
mass of the foreign quarter of Syracuse. On the very 
day of their arrival in that town they had their men. 

"Arrests made. Awaiting extradition papers. 
Hotel St. Cloud," — the Sergeant .telegraphed his 
Captain that night. 

And so the party in the clean white cells of the 
Schuylkill County Jail was rounded out at last. 

But the party was not congenial. Even from its 
several cells on their several tiers it found means of 
inter-accusations. It whispered things at night, in 
hisses lent wings by hatred. And Maria, with her 
baby in her arms, sat silent in the midst, hearing all. 

"But hold your tongue, fool!" they would finally 
adjure each other. "If such a miracle can happen as 
that you hold your tongue and tell nothing to Smith, 
the carabiniero, we shall all go free yet. Hold your 
tongue!" 

To the intermittent questioning of the two Troopers, 
however, the prisoners answered for a time very stead- 
ily, each with his original tale. 

"Joe Froio, my cousin, Domenico Niccolo, and 



100 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Domenico Fruscu tried to shoot me in Woodland 
Park on February 24th," Antonio Froio doggedly per- 
sisted. "I know nothing of the murder of Pangollo." 
"Tony Froio tried to shoot Domenico Niccolo and 
me, in Woodland Park, about February 24th," main- 
tained Joe. "And I was away over in Frackville at 
the time of the murder and knew nothing of it." 

"I was in Frackville when Pangollo was murdered. 
I know nothing," Fruscu repeated always. 

Then Joe Rizzi the cobbler, friend of the Law, — 
he who had three times already told "all" that he 
knew, — discovered yet another mite in the depths of 
his sack. 

"I — with these ears of mine that you see — I 
heard Tony Froio say, on the day of Pangollo's mur- 
der, that he would 'do the job before night.' And I 
saw him — quite plainly I saw him — hand a revolver 
to Joe Froio, his cousin." 

"Now" said the Sergeant, with an extraordinary 
mildness, "there is yet another thing you might do, 
Joe. You might tell just that to Joe Froio and to 
Fruscu. And will you tell them, too, that you will so 
testify in court? And that you will also testify that 
you saw them both at Rosa Borrusco's on the day of 
the murder?" 

"I will do anything," groaned the cobbler, "to earn 
your honor's favor. But surely it will be reckoned a 
shield to me before the Law?" 

"Joe," answered the Sergeant, in heavy tones, 
"nothing can change the truth that you are an acces- 
sory after the fact." 

Meantime, Maria sat in her cell, nursing her baby. 




Maria sat in her Cell, nursing her Baby 



BIG MINE RUN 101 

The place was very white and clean and bare. Some 
of the other cells had carpets, framed family photo- 
graphs, pictures of saints and of naked dancing-girls 
impartially mingled, and embroidered mottoes, such 
as, "God Bless Our Home." But Maria's cell was 
white and clean and bare. She swept it daily with the 
broom they gave her. She made her bed trig and firm. 
She smoothed her black hair till it shone like polished 
jet, and she ran her big silver dagger through its 
coils at an angle that filled the place with vitality. 

Her dress was neat and careful. And she kept her 
baby clean. Her beauty remained undimmed, and 
one judging from her gentle manner and her delicacy 
of feature would have thought her a well-brought- 
up girl of intelligent and superior stock — would have 
said, moreover, that she had seen nothing of life's 
seamy side. 

But Tony, in his distant cell, was troubled con- 
cerning her. Would she desert him? He knew that the 
sergeant of State Police saw her frequently. What 
was she saying to him? Tony's hot brain tore at the 
doubt till it stabbed and blazed within him. 

He wrote her note after note, putting each on the 
dustpan that took the daily sweepings of his cell. The 
prisoner who collected the pans was his fellow-pris- 
oners' secret messenger. But this time the missives 
tended to wander astray. 

At first the notes that Private Buono translated 
carried only messages imploring caution. All de- 
pended on Maria, urged the writer. Let her talk as 
little as possible. Let her tell nothing to Buono or 
to Smith. 



102 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

As for himself, the carabinieri did not visit him. 
But he knew that they talked with Maria every 
second day, and all night he wept in his cell for fear 
of what she might have told them. Let her be care- 
ful that they did not confuse her and lead her into 
speaking of him that which would separate them 
forever. Let her be wise, and in a little while, free, 
he should hold her in his arms. 

The Troopers left the man un visited still. His own 
thoughts were merciless visitants, and the strain of 
doubt and surmise the surest educers of the truth. 

The notes grew frantic, under the torment of soli- 
tude, silence, and dread: 

"Fidelity to you. A thousand kisses to you. Oh, 
my dear, if you love me, I love you. If you love me 
not, then my love for you is dead. And listen: If you 
desire to survive with me, then, when Smith talks to 
you, tell him that I was shot at. That I gave the 
revolvers to you and told you they belonged to Do- 
menico Niccolo, and Joe Froio, my cousin. Tell him 
also that when you heard that the revolvers were 
never mine, you did not want me to keep them at all 
and you told me to throw them away. And that I 
then did throw them away. And if you tell this to 
Smith, all will be well, because you are believed by 
Smith, and I would not be believed by him at all. 
So tell him this only, and if you love me tell no 
more. Remember that all you tell is written down. 
And you must write to me as I write to you, and 
tell me what they say about me. Because they never 
come to see me at all." 

Then, at last, receiving no answer and robbed by 



BIG MINE RUN 103 

the gnawing devil within him of the final atom of light, 
Tony scrawled upon papers furious charges, couched 
in words from the pit: Maria was false to the utter- 
most fibre of her being. The dregs of womanhood had 
been dragged for vices when she was born. Her si- 
lence now proved her treachery. Let her take care 
how she scorned him. He would denounce her to 
the carabinieri. He would say that she — she and 
no other — had urged him to kill Pangollo. Now she 
was tired of him, Tony, also. Now she wanted him 
out of her way so that she might in safety enjoy a new 
lover. Men! Men! What did the lives of men matter 
to her, so long as she had plenty of them! Whore! 
Carrion! Ghoul! 

Sergeant Smith brought Maria into the prison 
parlor. There he spread before her all the notes that 
had come to his hand. 

Maria, having read them once in silence, went 
back to her cell and returned with yet six others. To- 
gether they made for their author a terrible array. 

But the mad last note did more than that — it un- 
covered in the girl all the native fire of Sicily. 

For the last three years a wanderer, a fugitive, a toy 
of wild men's whims, she had led a life of privation, 
suffering, dread. And she had not yet reached her 
seventeenth birthday! By childhood tendency gentle 
and cool, the necessity, even in her father's house, of 
obedience to the arbitrary wills around her had kept 
her from the normal development of her kind — had 
kept her self-effacing, submissive, speechless, patient, 
almost without individual life. Blows she had borne 
from more hands than one, as a matter of course. 



104 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Pangollo had filled her with terror, whether in his 
love or in his horrible malice. Her father's heartless 
dismissal of her plea for escape and rescue had im- 
posed still another stone against the prison door of her 
hot Southern blood. She had dropped with scarcely a 
new emotion from the loosened grip of Pangollo into 
Froio's outstretched, passion-mad hands. It was a 
part of her fate. Froio had offered her asylum, with 
her child. Afterward, he had struck her, sometimes. 
He gave her food and shelter — and in the main he 
had meant to be good. She had no particular feeling 
for him in any way. 

Never in her life, either now or at any earlier time, 
had it seemed relevant that she should particularly 
feel. 

But, here was this letter — this last letter — some- 
thing new. She read it again and yet again, drawing 
together her level brows, while a slow flame rose be- 
hind the mystic veil of her eyes. 

When she lifted her head at last and looked at the 
Sergeant, it was another creature that confronted 
him. The veil was gone. She had been born anew. 

"I am afraid no longer," she said. "Let them kill 
me when they are ready. The Black Hand will kill me. 
That is sure. They belong to it, every one of them. 
But — what does anything matter, after words like 
these!" — and she struck the paper with the gesture 
that would have driven a blade. "Now, write down 
clearly what I shall tell you and be quick." 

"Are you ready? Good! When Joe Pangollo left 
the house of Rosa Borrusco, five minutes before he 
was killed, the three men who went with him were 



BIG MINE RUN 105 

Tony Froio, Joe Froio, and Domenico Fruscu. Five 
minutes before he was killed, I say. 

"Is it written? Good. Write once more: — 

" Three nights ago, when the prison was asleep and 
still as death, Tony Froio called softly over to Joe, his 
cousin, and said : — 

" 'Do not be afraid that Fruscu will tell who killed 
our man. He dare not, for you remember it was he 
who fired the first shot.' " 

Then the Sergeant ordered Joe Froio to be brought 
into the room. Very coolly Maria made her statement 
to his face. 

The man being withdrawn, Fruscu was produced, 
and Maria as coolly repeated her words. Like Joe, 
Fruscu denied their truth utterly. 

Last, Tony Froio was led into the room. At the 
first glimpse of him, all the chained-up force, all the ac- 
cumulated resentments of long years of silent suffer- 
ing, burst into blaze. The girl's slight body swayed 
like a tree in a storm. The daughter of iEtna had 
found herself! 

In whispers like the strike of a snake, she repeated 
the things he had said of her, the names he had called 
her in his last mad note, — that — and that — and that ! 

"And you thought you could frighten me so!" she 
ended in final fierce contempt. " But for this folly I 
would never have spoken. For you did feed me and 
my child. But now — I will gladly die to make you 
pay." 

"You told me to kill Pangollo," Tony threw back. 

"You lie — lie — lie ! But you told me you killed 
him. See! Bring me a crucifix and let me swear!" 



106 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Tony, railing bitterly, denied everything. But 
that night in his cell, he wrote another note, seeking 
to undo his mistake : — 

"Oh, my pretty wife, — I excuse all your words 
because I know you are mad. I will love you to the 
hour of my death because you are the flower of my 
life. I salute you with a thousand kisses on your 
sweet lips, and then again I kiss you. And I pray you 
when Smith comes, do not talk." 

Herewith the case entered upon a fresh phase. 
Antonio Froio, Joe Froio, and Domenico Fruscu, 
newly informed against for the joint murder of Pan- 
gollo, were arraigned accordingly and committed 
without bail. Maria Mariano and Domenico Nic- 
colo, released from charges, were recommitted as 
material witnesses. Rosa Borrusco, Frank Dini, and 
a swarm of other minor characters were kept securely 
within reach of hand. 

And now came a day when Sergeant Smith, late of 
the Sixth United States Cavalry, and Private Buono, 
late of the Twelfth, dropped in at the house of Rosa 
Borrusco for a friendly call. 

Singularly, it happened that all of the padrona's 
lodgers were at home at that time. And, equally 
casually, it chanced that not one of them left the 
place until the Troopers were ready to see him go. For 
the two old campaigners, shut into that house in the 
midst of the villainous gang, appreciated to the last 
stiletto's point at their backs exactly what risk they 
ran, and knew exactly how to handle it. 

Also, during the past few months of inquiry, they 
had accumulated an extraordinary amount of data 



BIG MINE RUN 107 

concerning the life histories of this company. And, 
again, if one were to dispose of them quietly now, 
among discreet friends, other Troopers and yet others 
would follow to avenge their taking-off. State boun- 
daries, time, space, alarms, and obstacles would mean 
nothing in their path. And sooner or later would come 
the electric chair. So — better let Tony and Joe and 
Domenico go first. Yes, one and all, gladly would the 
padrona's household appear at the jail to confront 
the three prisoners. Gladly would they affirm that 
Pangollo had walked forth from their sight with that 
trio — with Tony, Joe, and Domenico — five min- 
utes before his end. 

So it was done. And under that pressure, Joe Froio 
and Domenico Fruscu "broke." 

Out of the roots of the several confessions the truth 
now sprang to fight. With the threads of the several 
stories — some long and complicated, some of the 
briefest, yet essential to the whole — was rewoven 
the tragedy of the past, was substantiated the theory 
built by the Troopers in Lowe. Clearly enough, all 
links supplied, its sequence stood for a logical whole. 

Pangollo, natural bandit, bird of prey, blood-guilty, 
fleeing from the feet of the pursuers, came to the 
mountains of West Virginia. Here, by the knowledge 
common to his kind, he knew he should find no law. 
Statutes stood upon the books, without doubt, but 
who was there to enforce these statutes? Such as he 
could defy "the authorities" almost at will. There- 
fore, the region was their asylum and their happy hunt- 
ing-ground in very fact. He preferred an Italian com- 
munity for his manner of life, since Italians were 



108 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

already educated to the methods of The Society and 
the education saved time. So he came to Lowe and 
there, by force of the dominance of his nature, proved 
in a few drastic examples, rapidly established himself 
as Black Hand King. 

For a time he throve undisputed. His tolls were 
paid humbly, from each vassal's weekly wage. He 
wore fine clothes, and his dagger hand was calloused 
by no sordid tool of toil. To make his kingship richer, 
the prize of beauty budded within his reach. And 
then came the pretender — the rival — to threaten 
all. 

Tony, younger in years and experience, but with a 
spirit as wild and reckless as his own, dared make 
himself friends and followers — even dared look him 
straight in the eye and laugh. And there was some- 
thing in Tony's laugh that, while it stirred every 
devil within him, still kept his hand from the butt of 
his gun — twitching just off the butt of his gun. 

Yet, were it only for supremacy as expressed in 
levies of cash, he would have finished it brusquely, 
with lead or steel. But there was more — there was 
the girl — the loveliest thing in the mountains, coveted 
by every man that had seen or heard of her. She was 
the very symbol of the crown. To be killed by Tony 
would be to leave her to Tony's hand. To kill Tony 
and possibly be obliged to fly might be to leave the 
girl behind. Her indifference, too, maddened him. 
How could she be indifferent to him, the King? Had 
she another image in her heart — behind her mild 
eyes? 

Then came her father's refusal, incredibly daring, 



BIG MINE RUN 109 

and Tony's level gaze and Tony's laugh. He, Pan- 
gollo, must be revenged on them, every one. 

He laid his plan. It would cost him his present 
kingdom, to be sure, but others lay ripe for the tak- 
ing, and the game was worth the sacrifice. He would 
mock his rival by snatching the girl from under his 
hand. He would flay old Pasquale by making his 
daughter a shame to his name. As for the girl herself 
— he would have her at his leisurely mercy. 

So he stole the child away, and for almost a year 
dragged her after him, in his fevered repetition of crime 
and flight. Hither and yon they wandered, Pangollo 
adding hither and yon to the sum of his villainies. 

Meanwhile Tony, his rival, back in the Southern 
hills, was ruling over the field that had been his own. 
Work was abundant there, and the new King lightly 
took his toll of each man's earnings. He toiled not, 
neither did he spin, and his raiment expressed his 
plenty. 

Word of it came North from time to time, travelling 
by The Society's wireless. And the word cankered 
Pangollo's heart. 

But easy success begets carelessness, and to hot- 
blooded youth a too-submissive prey grows weari- 
some. So came the night of December 20 th, nearly 
a year after the old King's flight, when the new King, 
supported by certain of his vassals, shot a man in a 
style so bald that, even in West Virginia, his next 
step must be flight. 

Hotly though the thing had been done, it did no vio- 
lence to the traditions of the stock, produced no crisis, 
no confusion, in Tony's mind. Therefore he did not 



110 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

flee at random, but as coolly as quickly picked out 
an asylum where he knew that his trade would thrive. 
And he took with him five of his men, that he might 
arrive well attended as befitted his rank and purpose. 

On Christmas Eve, 1916, supported by Joe Froio, 
his cousin, and by Frank Dini, Pasquale Diolatti, 
Rocco Rizzi, and Domenico Fruscu, he made his entry 
into the town of Big Mine Run, at once erecting his 
standard there. 

Big Mine Run, awed by his state, his bearing, and 
the tales told by his men, hastened to do obeisance 
before him. From the very beginning there was no 
resistance at all. On pay-days at the colliery, Tony 
collected from every miner's envelope that which he 
saw fit. His scribe was Pasquale Diolatti, and each 
Sunday Diolatti obsequiously sat before him writing 
letters to Italians of larger means — shopkeepers and 
the like — to indicate the royal pleasure as to their 
assessments of tribute due. That tribute was obedi- 
ently rendered in precisely the manner ordained. 

All this simple machinery — so old and familiar 
after centuries of inheritance and practice that it runs 
like a force of nature — operated smoothly enough 
in Tony Froio's hands. Practically without incident 
it operated for five whole weeks. And then, by the 
marvellous nicety of fate, the old King, Pangollo the 
wanderer, — Pangollo, who might as probably have 
drifted anywhere else on earth, — drifted like a chip 
into the vortex of a maelstrom — drifted into Big 
Mine Run. 

Big Mine Run, very surely, well knew Pangollo's 
name. The wireless had often been burdened with it, 



BIG MINE RUN 111 

joining it to terrors that marked him as one of The 
Society's first. When now it saw the man in the flesh, 
it trembled before him, without mask or shame. 

Pangollo, the wanderer, the King in exile, starving 
and thirsty for homage, saw it tremble, and rejoiced. 
Here would he rest awhile, build up his fortunes, add 
by unequalled deeds to The Society's grim fame. 
There was money here; he would take it. There were 
men here; they should serve him on all fours. And 
then — what was this? Impossible! Out from among 
the bobbing rabbit folk swung Tony — Tony Froio, 
shouldering his way to the front. And Tony once 
more looked him straight in the eye as of old, and 
laughed — laughed from the depths of a heart of glee. 

Pangollo would have drawn upon him then and 
there, but his rival's men stood around him — and 
again that mysterious something withheld his hand. 

"Benvenutol Benvenutol" cried Tony. "Welcome 
to you, comrade. And why have you left la Bella 
behind? Was it to find if this place would suit your 
comfort together? Why, this very place, believe me, 
was ordained for you before all time! Andiam! Let 
us go and bring her, taking old friends with us, to 
make a fiesta of the coming of the Queen ! " 

So together they went to Mount Carmel, where 
Maria sat patiently waiting, and together, by the 
cross-country trolley, they brought her back to Big 
Mine Run. On that journey the men talked lightly, 
like old mates glad to meet. Giving and taking, they 
dealt out the news of the West Virginia hills. 

But Pangollo's eyes were restive the while, like eyes 
that nothing must escape. And Maria saw that he 



112 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

had rage and fear in his heart and much confusion of 
thought. Yet her own pulses were still, her own eyes 
veiled. What did it matter? What did all these tur- 
moils bring to her? When her time came, some one 
would take her where she must be. Why should she 
trouble to think? 

Wearily, she shifted the child on her breast. 

"Let me hold the bambino. You are tired, little 
pretty one." 

Tony whispered the words into the coils of her hair 
as he took her burden from her, and his eyes said 
more than his tongue. 

Pangollo, fine as a striking cobra, half rose from his 
seat, hand at hip. But Tony's gaze met him squarely, 
alight with that hateful laugh. And the henchmen's 
resilient poise showed how ready they were to spring. 
With a curse in his teeth Pangollo sank back. 

That night they all slept in Rosa Borrusco's house, 
or in neighboring lodgings. Next morning Pangollo 
rose late, as one loath to begin the day. In a black 
humor he descended to the common room, hanging 
aloof from the company there, silent and sinister, 
like a hovering hawk debating his plunge. 

After a time, toward noonday, he went out, only 
to fall into the hands of Tony, who, liberally beam- 
ing, led him back to the padrona's room. Pangollo an- 
swered his companion's amenities with surly growls, 
until the invitation to break bread. Then his endur- 
ance snapped short. 

"I'll have your blood before this day is done!" he 
burst forth, and rushed from the room. 

Thus crudely the old King blazoned the thing, 



BIG MINE RUN 113 

exposing both the crisis and his own weakened nerve. 
Plainly enough, there could be no space for the two 
in one principality. The question was simple — man 
to man, the victory to the ablest, and a field fair 
enough for any true pluck. But Pangollo's nerve had 
begun to go. 

The day was Sunday — the day each week set 
aside for the writing of letters giving notice of assess- 
ments due to the King. Tony had work to do; he 
must dictate these letters to Diolatti, his scribe. 
In orderly fashion he proceeded to finish the regular 
task. Then, at his leisure, about four o'clock in the 
afternoon, he summoned Joe Froio, his cousin and 
squire. 

"Go, bring me Domenico Fruscu," said he; "I 
have work for you to do." 

The two men before him, he outlined their task. 

"Joe, do you know Pangollo by sight?" he asked — 
"Pangollo, who was in Lowe?" 

"No," said Joe; "he had left Lowe before I went 
there." 

"Domenico, do you know Pangollo's face?" 

"Sure," answered Domenico; "I knew him in 
Lowe." 

" Good. Here is a gun for each of you, and a stiletto 
apiece. Go find your man at once. Take him out and 
kill him." 

"I'm afraid," begged Domenico; "he always car- 
ries his guns." 

"We are afraid," begged Joe. 

"Be afraid, then, of me," said Tony. "I shall walk 
just behind you, ready to shoot if he gets the drop on 



114 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

you. But if you do not kill him, J shall certainly hill 
both of you, on the spot" 

And they knew he would prove every whit as good 
as his word. 

Not once did they ask why Pangollo should be 
killed. That was not their business, but the business 
of Tony, their King. Not once did they question even 
in their own minds why Tony did not do the deed 
himself, if the deed must be done. To their way of 
thinking it is the prerogative of kingship to delegate 
to henchmen dull work like this — work requiring 
no skill or daring, work whose consequences may 
mean flight. If one day they also should become 
kings, they also would delegate such work, and them- 
selves rest serene in the land, taking tribute peacefully 
while their agents ran for their lives. So it is in The 
Society. 

Therefore, without argument or further protest, 
Joe Froio and Domenico Fruscu sought out Pangollo 
and invited him for a walk in Woodland Park. 

As they moved down the road from the house of the 
Padrona Borrusco, the usual Sunday afternoon stroll- 
ers met or passed them, Italians all. And it is signifi- 
cant of the temper and experience of these people that 
the would-be murderers felt it quite unnecessary to 
avoid their knowledge of the act. 

With Pangollo between them, the two, chatting 
easily, moved on for about a hundred yards. This 
brought them into the cut by which the trolley line 
traverses the side of a little wooded hill. Here Do- 
menico, after a glance over his shoulder that showed 
him Tony, revolver in hand, not six paces behind, 



BIG MINE RUN 115 

suddenly halted, snatched out the gun that had been 
given him — the little nickel gun — and fired. 

Pangollo, one step ahead, received the charge in 
his back. Wheeling, he drew his own revolver, but the 
safety stuck, and before he could release it, Joe 
Froio's first bullet had shattered the elbow of his 
right arm. The impact spun him around, to catch 
under each shoulder-blade the shots that ended his 
life. 

Regardless of the Italians looking on, — knowing 
that their silence was sure, — the two assassins yet 
feared the approach of a trolley car. So, their task 
fulfilled, they dashed up the side of the little wooded 
hill and disappeared. 

Tony Froio, satisfied, without haste, dropped his 
gun into his pocket, turned on his heel, and walked 
back through the town, placidly nodding as he passed 
to Joe Rizzi, cobbler and friend of the Law, and to 
other witnesses to the act. 

Then he extended his stroll, circled, and met his 
squires in the hill woods. 

"Take this six-shooter of mine," he commanded, 
"and go over to Joe Rizzi the cobbler, in Frackville. 
That is six miles away. He is on the road home now. 
Give him my gun to take care of, with the two you 
have just used, and the two stilettos. You can pass 
the night with him. Then you may go to Syracuse. 
Our people there will look after you." 

The faithful two acted accordingly. That night 
they slept with the friend of the Law and gave him 
the guardianship of the guns — of the Colt's "Police 
Positive" number 126505, sold on November 17, 



116 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

1915, by the Weyanoke Coal & Coke Company to 
Antonio Froio; of the Smith & Wesson six-shooter 
number 213732, sold to Antonio Froio through Frank 
Dini in Mr. Conner's store; and of the little nickel- 
plated pistol too humble to have a number, but worth 
the life of a man. 

These weapons, to Tony, were the tools of his trade, 
important. But for the moment they were better out 
of his hand. So he made capital of the emergency; 
he caused them to be received by Joe Rizzi, man of 
property, with vested interests and established trade. 

Joe Rizzi thereby became accessory after the fact. 
From the moment he accepted the guns, Tony would 
have a particular hold on him. He could clear Joe's 
cash-till to-morrow, then clear it again, at his pleas- 
ure. Should Joe attempt to protest, Tony would say, 
quite simply, "Very well, you go to jail." It was not a 
picturesque method, but it would serve its little turn, 
among the rest. 

Joe the cobbler, friend of the Law, was afraid to 
refuse. He knew too much. Rage in his heart, he ac- 
cepted the trust laid upon him. 

Next morning his two guests asked at a railway 
station concerning trains to Syracuse, and, as every 
station, road, or egress of any sort, within a wide 
circle, was already covered by the State Police, an- 
other hour saw them prisoners in "C" Troop Bar- 
racks. 

At "C" Troop Barracks the pair told a plausible 
tale of innocence and ignorance, in every point of 
which they were vigorously supported by Joe the 
cobbler, friend of the Law. The tale had been care- 



BIG MINE RUN 117 

fully made and learned among the three. Not a word 
of it did Captain Wilhelm nor Sergeant Smith nor 
Private Buono believe; moreover, they entertained 
the gravest suspicions as to the guilt of the two men. 
But no evidence yet in hand justified holding them. 
Therefore they turned them loose. 

Reassured by their release, and confident that the 
State officers, whom alone they feared, had no ink- 
ling of the truth, they remained about the place for 
an interval that afforded ample opportunity to deter- 
mine the list of their acquaintance and that of the 
Italian colony in general, in Syracuse. This oppor- 
tunity "C" Troop did not neglect. 

But all the work was done quietly — so quietly 
that it gave not the shadow of a sign. Sergeant 
Smith and Private Buono, day and night drilling in 
the depths, published no bulletins of their progress. 

"They are blocked!" thought Tony, "and blocked 
forever. We are perfectly safe." 

So he went to Joe the cobbler and took back his 
sinews of war — his stilettos and his guns. 

Almost at once, as though born of their possession, 
arose a new impulse to kill. On the 24th of February, 
only three weeks and a half after the death of Pan- 
gollo, Tony took Joe Froio, his cousin, with Domenico 
Niccolo, "the sheep," out into the wooded park, and 
there attempted their lives. 

The motives here involved made a drama in them- 
selves. Niccolo was a man of better nature, inclined 
to industry and peace. Joe Froio, being thrown into 
his company, developed a friendship for him, and 
with that began vaguely to regret the crimes that 



118 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

stained his own life, and to fear their consequences. 
Niccolo, drawn to Maria by her beauty, her misery, 
and their old acquaintance, was taking on a suitor's 
air. Maria was not repulsing him. 

In all this, Tony the King saw, first, the loss of 
the prize- woman — a thing not to be endured; and, 
second, the possible defection of a henchman, who 
might betray his master to placate the State or to 
serve a new friend. So he struck to kill both rival 
and doubtful supporter — struck and failed. And to 
fail in such matters bodes ill to a Black Hand King. 

Once more Tony bundled his side-arms together 
— his three revolvers and his knife. Calling Rocco 
Rizzi, his man, within the hour, he ordered him to 
hide them until such time as he, the King, should ask 
them back. 

Rocco, frightened and nervous but always obedient, 
buried the weapons in the safest spot he could think 
of — in the skirts of the Great Dump. But the very 
next day Tony's will veered again. He demanded his 
armament back. 

So Rocco ran to retrieve, and behold! there was 
no bone! The hole was rifled, the thing was gone. 

Tony, hovering near in the concealment of wayside 
brush, fell into a fury at the news. Rocco might go 
back once more — dig once again. Perhaps he had 
mistaken the spot. But if he failed this time, Tony 
would know that he had dared be false — that he 
had stolen the guns — and Tony would kill him where 
he stood. 

Rocco went back — dug once more, with hurrying, 
trembling hands, and found nothing. Tony, hidden 



BIG MINE RUN 119 

at a distance, watched him with eyes that already 
feasted on the blood spurting from his heart. And 
then he saw the descent of the two Troopers, heard 
Rocco's volley of protest, and knew that this bone- 
burier was the prisoner of the State Police. 

Now nothing remained but flight. Taking Maria 
with him, he broke away for New York. 

Such were the facts that the Troopers' work re- 
vealed. 

In the digest of the case now prepared by Sergeant 
Smith for the benefit of the District Attorney, its 
upbuilding from day to day was set forth with extra- 
ordinary clarity in exact order of incident. The final 
phrase read: — 

"The confessions in the case are in such shape that 
they can be used on the witness stand against all 
three defendants." 

The trials came on in the September term of court, 
those of Joe Froio and Domenico Fruscu leading. 
These two men repeated the confessions already made 
to the officers of the State Police, and their assertions 
were supported, point by point, by the evidence of 
many witnesses. 

In the baldest manner the prisoners related their 
deed, underscoring the fact that they had killed 
simply because they were told to kill, without heat, 
without provocation, without any promise of reward. 
One of them had not even known the victim by sight 
until a quarter of an hour before he shot him to death. 
The other's acquaintance had been of the slightest. 
They showed no regret, no shame, no scruple of any 
sort. 



120 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Why should they? These things were daily life to 
them — matters of course. 

Their lawyers offered no hopeful defense. No such 
defense could be offered. The horror was too com- 
plete. And out of it glared in all its wild monstrosity 
the naked figure of the Black Hand. 

The District Attorney asked for a verdict of mur- 
der in the first degree. The opinion of the Judge was 
plain. The feeling of the County was intense. But the 
jury returned from their deliberations, happily snig- 
gering, as an angry press reported, to render a ver- 
dict of murder in the second degree. 

Then, in the face of the outraged Judge, the entire 
panel, walking over to the two grinning prisoners at 
the bar, congratulated them warmly and shook their 
hands. 

Immediately thereafter came the trial of Antonio 
Froio. 

Joe, his cousin, and Domenico Fruscu, were the 
principal witnesses of the State, despite a vigorous 
effort on the part of the defense to keep them from 
the stand. 

"Let them be cautioned, at least," urged their law- 
yers, "that they need give no evidence to degrade 
or incriminate themselves." 

Whereon even the Court commented caustically. 

Tony's statement was an elaborate attempt to foist 
the whole burden of the murder upon the shoulders 
of his two associates, and a sweeping denial of any 
personal knowledge of the crime. Long before he had 
finished, Joe and Domenico themselves fairly panted 
to testify, and it was obvious that they would willingly 



BIG MINE RUN 121 

further incriminate themselves if by so doing they 
could make heavier the punishment of their treacher- 
ous leader. 

One after another, additional witnesses were put on 
the stand. Rarely or never had that always busy 
County Court heard a case in which was introduced 
so much evidence of an important character. The 
testimonies dovetailed with deadly precision. The 
structure of the prosecution, as built by the State 
Police, was superb. 

At last Maria was brought in. As she took her seat 
within the court enclosure Tony was speaking. For 
some moments she sat unheeding, with bent head. 
Then through the haze of her embarrassment his 
words began to penetrate. He was spinning the in- 
tricate falsehood of his defense. 

She stared at him with eyes dilated, listening 
amazed to the facile flood. He uttered her name. She 
leaned forward with lips apart, not to lose a syllable. 
She had confessed to many a lover, he ran on. She 
was a loose woman. Once, even, he had been im- 
pelled to drive her out of his house in righteous 
wrath. 

Out of that cloud, mercifully, it was the Homeric 
jest that first stood forth to the girl's mind, irresistible. 
With all simplicity Maria threw back her head and 
laughed — turned deliberately, as if for understand- 
ing, to the Italians crowding the back of the chamber, 
and laughed aloud. 

The People's case, now soon concluded, was per- 
fect in every part. With so much skill, foresight, and 
knowledge of the law had the State Police knitted the 



122 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

fabric that it proved literally impregnable — without 
a flaw. 

But the jury, nevertheless, and after five hours of 
deliberation, once more returned a verdict of murder 
in the second degree. 

In the face of the solid facts, what can explain it? 
This: — 

As at the trial of Joe and Domenico, as at the trial 
of any Black Hand case, the Court was packed with 
Italians from far and near — friends of the prisoner, 
allies in their trade. From New York City, from Syra- 
cuse, from many another town in that State, from 
points farther afield, and from the entire home re- 
gion, men had flocked to the support of the accused, 
whether from personal motives, dark and obscure, or 
for The Society's prestige. They were known to com- 
mand money in large sums. And their mere presence 
did not fail of its calculated suggestion and effect. 

Again, in full sight of the jury, was displayed on 
a table a row of knives and revolvers, the exhibits in 
the case. Rough gouges in hafts and barrels told the 
number of lives that each weapon had sped. And 
through the evidence educed in the trial pierced once 
and again the ominous fact that the group of gunmen 
here in custody was but the visible point of a large and 
active class — a class pervading wide areas and many 
States, bound together for mutual protection by an 
extraordinary loyalty, served hand and foot, in fear 
and trembling, by the non-criminal element of its own 
blood, and absolutely steeped in murderous crime. 

In neither trial did any juryman bear an Italian 
name. By the gauge of name, most were of German 



BIG MINE RUN 123 

extraction or of English or Irish blood. But they 
lived in or near towns where the Italian population is 
large. They rated their own lives and comfort high. 
And their sense of civic responsibility was perhaps of 
the average size. So . . . 

The Honorable H. O. Bechtel, President Judge of 
the Court of Common Pleas, before whom these trials 
were held, in passing sentence upon Antonio Froio, 
said : — 

"... Where on earth there appears in this tale any 
sort of extenuating circumstance, I cannot say. . . . 
I cannot, as a lawyer, understand how any jury could 
reach the conclusion that any of these men were not 
guilty of first-degree murder. They were either guilty 
of first-degree murder or they were not guilty at all. 
. . . These verdicts can only result in the commission 
of further crimes, in the bringing of the administra- 
tors of justice into ridicule and contempt. . . . How- 
ever, the only thing for the Court to do is to impose 
sentence, and I propose, in sentencing the prisoner, to 
give him the full limit of the law. 

"I believe in my conscience that all three of them 
should have been sent to the chair instead of to the 
jail. And this man was the brains of the whole con- 
spiracy. He is the man who planned the murder, who 
started the machinery to carry out the plan, who sent 
the men to carry it into execution, who went to the 
spot to see it properly done. I sentence him to pay 
the costs and to undergo imprisonment in the Eastern 
Penitentiary for a period of not less than nineteen nor 
more than twenty years." 

Antonio Froio, so sure had he been of receiving the 



124 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

penalty of death, so great was his horror of the elec- 
tric chair, had thrice attempted to commit suicide 
while in jail awaiting trial. Now he listened to the 
Judge's words like one shaken out of his wits. 

Even he could not be grateful for such a sentence. 
The logic of the thing was too preposterous. If the 
deed he had done was not murder, of malice pre- 
pense, — was not the crime entailing the extreme 
penalty, — then surely no such crime exists, — then 
the whole matter was illusion, and he had done 
nothing at all. 

Why, then, were they imposing upon him the pun- 
ishment attached to some other crime — some crime 
that he had not committed? He felt suddenly angered, 
aggrieved, oppressed. 

"Do I have to serve so long?" he petulantly asked 
the Court. 

But later, swayed by the hopes and felicitations of 
his friends and remembering the Pardon Board, he 
complained no more. 

Joe and Domenico, not less surprised by similar 
sentences, displayed a cheerful front. But those who 
observed Domenico closely said that whenever the 
two were together his eyes sought Tony's with a pe- 
culiarly meaning contempt, while Tony avoided his 
gaze. And they predicted a classic reckoning between 
these two when the Penitentiary doors should open 
to set them free. 

The County papers stormed over the "cowardly 
verdict." "It is a notice to the Black Hand all over 
the country, perhaps in Europe as well, that Schuylkill 
County has the softest jurors in the world," said one. 



BIG MINE RUN 125 

"Doubtless," said another, "the young assassins 
thought their heinous crime was commendable, clever, 
smart, when the jurymen shook their hands and 
said, 'God Bless You !'..." 

Maria, propelled as ever by an extraneous fate, was 
sent to new fields, and to the welcome and shelter of 
a true friend. The greatest care has been taken that 
no one in any of the scenes of her strange adventures 
should know of her whereabouts, and as yet it is be- 
lieved that the secret is intact. 

But Maria herself has no illusions. Twice she has 
written to her trusted ally, Sergeant Smith, and twice 
she has said, in effect: — 

"Of course the Black Hand will get me some day, 
but I pray it may not be yet. I am very happy here 
with the good new mamma you found for me, and my 
baby grows strong and big." 



V 

THE HUNGRY ROPE 

CHARLES WILSON was known to the brethren 
as a "bad nigger," and no one in Schuylkill 
County remembered a day when the term had not 
described him. At the age of seventeen he had already 
piled up a lurid past. And when he then added to his 
record a full-grown burglary, Judge Bechtel, of the 
County Bench, decided to deliver a harried public 
from his presence for a considerable time to come. 

So he gave him six years. 

As Wilson was led from the courtroom, after the 
pronouncing of the sentence, he shook his fist in the 
face of the Judge, and swore that his first business, 
on emerging from prison, should be to kill the Judge, 
the Sheriff, and the town officer who had arrested him. 

Whereupon His Honor summoned him back into 
Court and gave him three years more. 

At the time when he indulged in this particular 
demonstration Wilson was in the employ of a farmer 
of Tumbling Run Valley, William Yeager by name. 
Later, in the seclusion of the Eastern Penitentiary, 
he bethought himself of Mr. Yeager as a possible 
avenue of escape. So he wrote several letters to his 
former employer asking for assistance — asking him 
at least to file an application for parole. 

Mr. Yeager remaining unmoved, the prisoner then 
wrote once more, merely to say that the name of 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 127 

Yeager was added to the list of the doomed — that 
from the day when he, Wilson, should regain his free- 
dom, by whatever means, the farmer might begin to 
count his life by hours and minutes. 

All this history was now more than nine years old. 
Judge Bechtel had completely forgotten it, among the 
crowding events of his busy life. Mr. Yeager, in the 
even round of a farmer's seasons, had quite lost sight 
of it long ago. But Charles Wilson, "bad nigger" and 
time-expired man, had walked out of the gates of the 
Eastern Penitentiary with but one clear purpose in 
his incommodious brain — to get back to Schuylkill 
County and make his threats good. 

Now, on Saturday, October 28, 1916, he was mov- 
ing thither as fast as his means allowed. 

At midday, as a coal-train pulled slowly through 
Port Clinton Station on the Philadelphia & Reading 
tracks, a watchful officer of railroad police caught a 
glimpse of something that excited his zeal. He felt 
sure that he had seen a man scramble aboard on the 
far side, and crawl toward the top of a loaded car. 

So, being an earnest officer, he ran as fast as he 
could, with some difficulty boarded the train himself, 
and after a few active moments of clutching and climb- 
ing, was about to rear his head above the slope of 
glittering jet on which he believed his appointed prey 
to lie. 

He cautiously reared his head, taking care to present 
the muzzle of his revolver close beside it, and he care- 
fully focussed his mind and his eyes for a spot about 
halfway down the car. Therefore, to find himself 
suddenly gazing, at the range of two or three feet, no 



128 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

more, into the eyes of a very large negro who seemed 
by no means scared, had almost the effect of making 
him cross-eyed and hysterical at one blow. 

The negro, in very fact, was big. He would have 
stood over six feet tall, and he weighed some two hun- 
dred and thirty pounds. Even spread flat as he now 
was, his massive bulk was apparent and his great 
shoulders told a story that needed no proof. 

"Mr. P'liceman," he said, with a cheerful grin, "Ah 
want yo' gun." And he shoved a gun of his own 
about five inches beyond his nose. 

The railroad policeman was watchful and earnest, 
but he was also rather small, and it seemed to him 
only discreet to accede. He handed up the revolver. 

"Now," said the negro, reversing the muzzle, "Mr. 
P'liceman, sah, you beat it ! " 

The policeman did the thing the phrase implied. 
He fell off the train, which had attained its mean 
velocity. He sprawled as he fell. Then he picked 
himself up and ran back to Port Clinton as fast as his 
two legs would take him. There he wired an alarm 
up the road. 

As the coal-train rolled into Tamaqua, seventeen 
miles or so farther on, the contraband from his perch 
perceived that a welcome awaited him. Several men, 
whom instinct told him to avoid, hovered expectantly 
on the station platform. So, without waiting for 
closer approach, he slid over the far side of his car, 
dropped to earth with his negro's awkward ease, and 
took to the underbrush. 

As he ran he hugged under his arm something dark 
that looked about the size of a big squash. 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 129 

With a view-halloo the railroad police broke after 
him — hunted him on and away into the deep woods. 
Sometimes thereafter they caught half a glimpse of 
him — and fired. Once and again he fired back. 
Twenty-five cartridges had been wasted before dusk 
fell and the pursuers abandoned the chase as hope- 
less. 

But they abandoned it only for the night. They were 
the official protectors of the railroad, employed and 
paid for the performance of certain duties, of which 
the apprehension of stealers of rides was not the least. 
They could not accept a defeat so flagrant. So they 
telegraphed for more railway police, and with the 
coming of the morning started out for a general bush- 
beating . 

But ever their man eluded them. Again and again 
their clutch closed over his still stirring cover, only to 
find him "stole away." At last the scent grew stale 
and cold. 

And it was after that, in the second day, that 
they made known their trouble to "C" Troop, State 
Police. 

Now, over in " C " Troop Barracks, near Pottsville, 
there was, at the moment, great dearth of men. 
Captain, Lieutenant, and almost all of the command 
were away on special duty, leaving the First Sergeant 
to do his best at home with a scant handful. 

But First Sergeant Snyder, old veteran of the 
Regular Army, and member of the Force since the 
Force was, is a tried and proved man. First Sergeant 
Snyder's best is no child's play. 

In the start he gave his few patrols instructions 



130 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

concerning "an unusually large negro," which hazy 
phrase comprised the whole description afforded by 
the railroad police. For no one at this time connected 
the name of Charles Wilson with the hero of the 
coal- train. Charles Wilson had been nine years out 
of the mind of all Schuylkill County, and the coal- 
train affair seemed to the public merely an anony- 
mous contribution to public cheer. 

But as Tuesday afternoon sank into the dusk of 
evening, a streamer of news flew over the country, 
of a color that blanched the earlier tale invisible: A 
murder had been committed. The victim was one of 
those solid farmers that are Schuylkill's special pride. 
All jests and laughter were forgotten in the shock — 
all other concerns laid aside. 

This time the State Police were the first to receive 
the alarm. 

"Daniel Wagner's shot. We're just sending him 
in to the Potts ville hospital. I think he's dying. Oh, 
go quick!" a woman's voice gasped over the tele- 
phone. 

First Sergeant Snyder lost not a moment in acting 
on the report. Jumping into the Troop motor, he 
reached the hospital just as the wounded man had 
been put to bed. 

"Shot through the side," said the doctor. "A bad 
case. Here's where we've got him" — as he spoke 
he opened a door for the officer to pass. "He's very 
weak. Make the most of a few minutes. I can't let 
him be taxed beyond that." And he led the way to 
his patient's cot. 

Daniel Wagner was a Pennsylvania German of the 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 131 

pure type — stout, florid, sturdy, phlegmatic, sound. 
He was about thirty-five years old — a married man 
with a wife and little children waiting for him at home. 
But his round face was white and sunken now, and 
as he lay with closed eyes it seemed as if his place in 
the world would scarcely know his living presence 
again. 

With a heavy effort he lifted his mind through the 
deeps of stupor, in answer to the Sergeant's voice. 

"Who are you?" 

"Daniel — Wagner." 

"Where do you live?" 

Clearly, but with great labor, the wounded man 
made his reply. 

"I'm shot. I'm — dying," he added, vague terror 
in his eyes. 

"Who shot you?" 

"I don't — know." 

"Was he black or white?" 

"Don't — know. I only saw — him — a second. 
I was — napping. As I — waked up — he — fired — 
I " — the weak voice trailed off into a whisper and 
ceased. The lips fell apart. 

"Come away," said the doctor. "He can't stand 
any more." 

"Queer thing," he added, as they walked off, "the 
poor fellow was n't robbed. We found his bill-fold 
in his pocket, apparently untouched — except for the 
bullet. That had drilled right through leather, bills, 
and all." 

As the Sergeant crossed the threshold, his quiet 
step changed to a stride. As he jumped into the Troop 



132 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

car, he gave a word to the young recruit at the wheel 
that lent the wheels wings. 

It was only about six miles from the hospital door 
to the farmhouse whence had come the first report — 
the house whence Wagner had just been brought. In 
that house the people waited anxiously to tell all that 
they knew. But, as Sergeant Snyder soon found, they 
knew little enough. 

It was now a quarter to six o'clock. At about 
twenty minutes after four, they said, they had heard 
a great pounding of hoofs on the road outside, and 
had run to the window just in time to see a gallop- 
ing team whirl into their yard and stop. The driver 
seemed to be kneeling by his seat, but before they 
could reach the spot, he had disappeared — fallen 
back into his cart. 

Then they recognized Daniel Wagner, their friend 
and neighbor, who in the early morning had driven 
by on his way to New Philadelphia, a little town some 
miles beyond, with a load of produce to sell. And they 
saw that Daniel Wagner was badly hurt. 

So they lifted him down and carried him into the 
house, while some one took his wild-eyed, panting 
team in charge. 

Wagner was then quite clear of mind, they said, and 
yet could tell them practically nothing of what had 
occurred. He had sold his produce, had finished his 
business in the market town, and was jogging peace- 
fully home, his money in his wallet. The afternoon 
was soft and dark. He must have fallen asleep with 
the reins in his hands while his good old farm-team 
guided themselves in their sober, leisurely way. 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 133 

Suddenly something had happened. He could not 
say what, nor where. He had only one hazy impres- 
sion in his mind — the fragment of a fragment — like 
the memory of a thing half seen in the flare of a light- 
ning flash — an impression of some shock — some 
stunning impact — of a man standing in the road — 
no more. 

Later — he did not know how much later — he had 
begun to realize himself — to think. Then he per- 
ceived that he had slid from his seat to the wagon bot- 
tom — that he had the reins in his hands — that the 
team was running away — that a farmyard gate opened 
just ahead. He turned the team into the gateway. 

The wounded man could tell no more. His friends, 
seeing his growing weakness, had hurried him to the 
hospital. And the moment he was out of the house, 
one of the women of the family flew to the telephone 
to warn the State Police. She it was who now told the 
tale, trembling with excitement, twisting her hands, 
weeping. The men had not yet returned from town. 

"Thank you," said Sergeant Snyder. "Now I'll 
have a look outside." 

At the farmyard entrance he picked up the trail of 
the galloping team, thence with his pocket flashlight 
tracing it back and back along the road. Clearly 
enough it stood out — the deep imprints of springing 
hoofs distinct among the marks of common traffic — 
for a full quarter-mile. Then it suddenly stopped. 

"Look!" said the Sergeant to the recruit who ac- 
companied him. "Right here's where they gave their 
first jump. Here's where the shot was fired. We'll 
search the sides of the road." 



134 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Carefully they hunted through brush, briar, and 
the deep, dry tangles of tall dead weeds and grass. 
The recruit made the first discovery. 

"Here's a bucket," he announced — "an old brown 
bucket — and two doughnuts in it — one with a piece 
bitten out." 

The Sergeant stood at his shoulder before he fin- 
ished the phrase. "That bucket might have been here 
a month," said the Sergeant. "These doughnuts" — 
and he held his flashlight close — "could be a week 
old. But as for the bite — that 's as fresh as paint. 
That was done within the last few hours." 

Then again he turned his light upon the ground. 
"Here's where somebody's been sitting, this after- 
noon — bent grass, broken stalks — See 'em? And 
what's this?" 

He was stooping over an old tree-stump, first scru- 
tinizing its surface, then feeling around it, then 
twitching gently at some object lodged beneath its 
spreading roots. With a last persuading tension he 
drew it forth. 

"Hold the light, till we look," he commanded, 
straightening up, with the thing in his hands. 

The recruit turned his lamp on the Sergeant's find 
— a crumpled piece of white cotton cloth. The Ser- 
geant carefully smoothed it out. It was a sort of rude 
sack, and about the size of a meagre pillow-case. In 
one side four holes had been cut, like the holes in a 
Jack-o'-lantern face. The two ends were raw, and 
had been torn, not cut. 

"This stuff is new," Sergeant Snyder pronounced. 
"It has never been washed. Moreover, it has been 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 135 

under that stump only a matter of a very few hours. 
Feel of it. It has n't lost its stiffness yet. And see 
these loam-marks, where the outside creases came — 
how fresh and sharp-edged they are still. The man 
that had this mask bunched it up in his hands and 
rammed it under this stump no longer ago than Daniel 
Wagner's shooting. That rounds out his picture: — 

"He was sitting here hidden in the tall weeds, 
waiting; and eating doughnuts while he waited. In his 
pocket he had the mask. He dozed, maybe, — a 
darky always will doze, you know, on the slightest 
chance, — and waked up with a jerk at the sound 
of a team close on him. He lifts his head, sees only 
one man in the wagon, drops his precious, half-eaten 
doughnut back into the pail for safe-keeping, pulls 
on his mask, jumps out, and blazes away at poor 
Wagner. 

"But he had forgotten the horses. The horses run, 
carrying Wagner, Wagner's purse, — if that was what 
was wanted, — and above all, the evidence of the 
crime. 

"So the fellow knows it is only a question of hours, 
or less, when the chase will be on. He must make the 
most of the interval. He is scared — badly scared. 
He grabs off his mask, balls it up in his two hands, and, 
as he thinks, sticks it out of sight under this old stump. 

"But he does n't take time to make a good job of 
it. He knocks off a bit of loose bark in his haste — and 
leaves that mark, there, blazed on the stump, a tell- 
tale. Then he cuts and runs." 

"Who was he?" the recruit baldly bleated. 

"How should I know!" the Sergeant sadly replied. 



136 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"But in the morning, my lad, you'll be out with the 
first crack of dawn. And you'll be looking for that big 
darky that collects guns." 

Meantime, other wheels had been turning — wheels 
set in motion on the first alarm by the Sergeant's prac- 
tised touch. "C" Troop's resources, depleted though 
they were, had all been sensitized to the need of the 
hour. And so it was that Private Buono, prospecting 
with purpose around the town of Pottsville, made 
a discovery. 

The discovery was that one Charles Wilson, colored, 
before the day of the State Police sentenced to nine 
years' imprisonment and therefore to them unknown, 
had but just finished serving his full term; that Wilson 
was a very large man; and that his mother now lived 
in Pottsville. Upon this, having in view the stealer of 
rides, the collector of guns, Private Buono, in civilian 
clothes, had betaken himself at once to the house 
indicated. 

There in her kitchen Private Buono sat talking 
with the negress, the convict's mother, gathering, as 
he felt, some valuable points, when a slight change 
of expression seemed to flit across her face, and 
he thought she made a signal to some one behind 
him. 

He swung around to look. No third person was in 
sight. But, "Ah reckon Ah '11 be goin' now," called a 
big, half -laughing negro voice somewhere in the outer 
hall. And the street door slammed. 

With a jump Private Buono followed. As he reached 
the street he saw the man whom he believed to have 
preceded him running ahead. 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 137 

Private Buono pursued. The runner turned, levelled 
his revolver, and fired a shot that whistled very close 
to the Trooper's ear. 

It was dark now — after six o'clock — and the 
narrow streets and alleys of the quarter were pockets 
of night. Doubling in and out, the fugitive managed 
after a time to throw his pursuer off the track, until 
once more he betrayed himself, yielding to the temp- 
tation to fire again, from an alley mouth, as the 
Trooper ran past. 

But, though the range was close, the aim failed. 
Private Buono wheeled into the alley. The negro 
dashed out at the farther end, and, rapidly turning 
corners, again escaped from sight. 

A swelling crowd of excited onlookers now com- 
plicated the situation — blocked the view. 

"There! There he goes!" yelled a voice on the far 
outskirts. 

"There!" shrieked others. "There he runs! There 
below!" 

Following their indication Trooper Buono clove his 
way through the throng and plunged down the steep 
incline — the slope of the hill on which the town is 
built. At the bottom the fugitive stood as if waiting, 
gun in hand. As the officer neared he fired once more, 
then sprang over the fence and dived into an old 
cemetery where, hidden and lost among tombs and 
the far-extended planting about them, he passed be- 
yond any one man's powers of discovery. 

Hot over his failure Private Buono still had no 
need to stop to think. Help he must have. Useless to 
report to Barracks, for, as he well knew, not another 



138 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

man could now be drawn from that source. So he 
must ask for the town police. 

His call came in to City Hall just as the night men 
filed in for duty. The night men were seven. 

"Jump onto this job, every last soul of you," Chief 
Hoepstine commanded. "Take the first motor you 
find in the street and light out!" 

They lit out. At the door they found not only a 
motor, but a motor with a driver ready and eager for 
the chase. It was only a four-passenger car, to be sure, 
but with two standing on either running-board, it 
served as well as a bus. Through the thickly crowded 
main thoroughfare they drove with care. But they 
whipped into the first available side-street, speeding 
apace, and when they came to their proper corner, 
had, in their enthusiasm, attained such headway 
that they could not make the turn. 

The car skidded, crashed into a tree. Its occupants 
shot hither and yon. And the first of the crowd that 
rushed to the scene found eight dazed men, sitting or 
lying about the roadbed, all somewhat injured, two 
badly hurt. 

For a time the wholesale calamity befallen the 
guardians of the town consumed the town's attention. 
But by half after seven o'clock the prior interest again 
prevailed, and City Hall overflowed with citizens of- 
fering themselves and their vehicles for the hunt. 

Trooper Buono sped in the first car. Railway police 
officers cast themselves into those that followed. Dur- 
ing half an hour the town of Pottsville threw off 
motors into the night as a pin- wheel throws off sparks. 
For general belief now held that the fugitive negro 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 139 

and Daniel Wagner's assassin were one, and not a man 
in the county could give a thought to other concerns 
while that assassin remained at large. 

Flying in every direction, singly or in pairs, the cars 
covered the territory immediately outlying the town. 
Every house, barn, or saloon that conceivably might 
shelter the negro, was searched, every passer on the 
road was questioned, every patch of woods and brush 
was combed, the brickyard, with all its ovens and 
drying-houses, was ransacked. Wild rumors fluttered 
down out of the skies, and, as each one alighted, a car 
darted out in whatever direction that rumor pointed. 

But at three o'clock in the morning, when the 
searchers foregathered at City Hall, not one had a 
ray of news to offer, and by common consent the en- 
tire company went home to bed. 

At dawn — the dawn of Wednesday, November 1st 
— First Sergeant Snyder put his every available man 
on the job, the citizens helping with a will. All negro 
and foreign settlements in every town in the county 
were searched, the mountains hunted over, and each 
report of the presence of an unknown black, whence- 
ever it came, sifted to a conclusion. By means of 
track-walkers, switchmen, station agents, and train- 
hands, the two railroads had been turned into man- 
traps on the first alarm. But still another day ran 
on — another night dragged through its hours, with- 
out result. 

On Thursday popular excitement and the popular 
activity remained at fever pitch. North, east, and 
south there was mounting and riding over the hills. 
South, east, and north, sped false alarms. 



140 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

But well on into Thursday afternoon came at last 
a word that rang with a new sound. It rose from out 
of the west, and if there yet remained an able-bodied 
man who had not joined the chase, he joined it now. 

Then First Sergeant Snyder, wise in times and sea- 
sons, feeling that the hour was nigh, quietly laid 
aside another and most vital work, and took the 
open road. 

The hunt burst into western Schuylkill with a rush. 
The trail grew hot and hotter, and yet again and 
again disappointment dashed sure hope. By nine 
o'clock on this, the third night of the pursuit, most of 
the chase, tired out and discouraged, had once more 
turned back toward home. And then it was, and not 
till then, that Sergeant Snyder got his real news. 

He was scouting about the little town of Donaldson 
when it came, borne by a breathless messenger. 

"They've caught him! Over in Tremont! Shut 
him up in a swamp ! Some hunters beyond the creek 
saw a light in a cabin where nobody lives. They guessed 
it might be the nigger, so they went and told the man 
that owns the shack. He told the Chief Burgess and 
everybody else he met. The Chief Burgess turned out. 
and the whole town after him. When they got to the 
cabin — cabin 's on the creek-bank — Burgess threw 
his car headlights square on it. Then the nigger runs 
out of the door and jumps over the bank — - must be 
eighteen feet high — into the creek below. From 
there he cuts into the swamp, and now the crowd is 
surrounding the swamp, shooting." 

Sergeant Snyder covered the distance between 
Donaldson and Tremont at a speed that the emer- 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 141 

gency condoned. With his mind's eye he saw the em- 
battled farmers falling in windrows, dropped by the 
cross-fire of their own guns. Was it in the power of 
engines to rush him there in time? 

As his car dashed into the scene the visible gravity 
of the situation confirmed his thought. Two hundred 
men and more, armed with shotguns and rifles and 
pitchforks, had encircled the swamp. The headlights 
of several cars, placed at intervals, struck sharp rays 
into its murky depths, exaggerating every little flicker 
across the shadowy planes. 

Crack! went a rifle, off to the left. The Sergeant 
almost winced, in anticipation of a cry of pain from 
some wounded man. Even if they did not slaughter 
each other, they were tempting the madness of their 
quarry. Whatever creature they held penned among 
them was a creature fighting for his life. 

Now, First Sergeant Walter Snyder, like every 
other officer of the Force, sees his own relation to 
given crises purely from the Force's standpoint; 
which standpoint, in the matter of personal danger, 
hurt, and cost, even to cost of life itself, affords no 
view at all. 

So, very promptly, he requested the Burgess to call 
off his men. 

' "But — we've come out to get the hound!" pro- 
tested the Burgess hotly. 

"You have got him, Burgess. You've held him. 
Now I'll just go fetch him out for you, that's all." 

"You mean you'll go in there?" 

"As soon as you draw off your men. It's the only 
thing to do." 



142 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"But—" 

"Don't you see, Burgess, how nervous they are? 
Firing like this . . ." 

Crack ! Crack ! Crack I — a little tempest of hys- 
terical shots broke loose even as he spoke. 

"Cross-firing like this, it's the Lord's mercy they 
have n't killed each other already, filling the woods 
with lead." 

The Burgess, moved against his will, sent the mes- 
sage around the line. Growling resentfully, the far- 
mers fell back. 

"Put them way off — way off. Tell 'em to close up 
the escapes," the Sergeant advised. 

But while he so both advised and exacted, his 
deepest motive lay hid in his own breast. 

He watched them fall back, back, spreading far- 
ther apart. Quickly then he turned to the Trooper 
attending him: — 

"See that they stay there. Don't let them get to 
shooting again. Head the car for the home road. Keep 
them as far away from it as you can, and stand by, 9 ' 

Then he waded into the swamp. 

It was a swamp of big brush — of rhododendrons 
spreading heavy screens of green, of bull-briar snares, 
of saplings massed in bulk, of tall trees bent and over- 
lapping, of tussocks and oozy bog — a perfect hiding- 
place — a perfect ambush. 

Using his searchlight the Sergeant covered back 
and forth, back and forth, in that night-black, many- 
veiled morass, scanning three feet at a time — offer- 
ing in his own person, as he well knew, the best of tar- 
gets for the armed outlaw hidden and at bay. 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 143 

"This is my job. I've got to get him myself. It's 
the only way," he was thinking as he raked the 
darkness through. 

And not once did he waste a thought on how easily 
his difficult task could be reversed — how exceedingly 
easily the hiding and desperate man could take the 
life of his solitary pursuer. 

But still he saw nothing — nothing but the shapes 
of leaf and branch and moving shadow — heard 
nothing but the suck and slide and crackle of his 
own steps. Almost it seemed as if the cover was 
blank. 

Then suddenly, sweeping under the silvery, sagging 
rails of an old fence, his light caught on something 
that glittered — caught and stood fast — on staring 
eyeballs in a black face. 

The Sergeant's gun was up. 

"Coon, what are you doing in there?" 

But why did he almost whisper the words? 

"Ah's de one you's lookin' fer, please, sah!" 
strangely the negro whispered back. 

"Get up." 

The negro arose — all of six feet in height, great 
in bulk. He carried a revolver in his hand, hanging as 
if he had forgotten it. 

"Give that gun here. Have you got another?" 

"Yes, sah, please. Here dey is, sah." 
! Two guns exchanged hands. 

"Now," said First Sergeant Snyder, and still his 
voice came below his breath, "I'm not going to hand- 
cuff you, because I want you to move before me. Just 
as I tell you. Quietly and quick. If you try to get 



144 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

away, I shall shoot you. But if those people out there 
once get at you — " 

"Yes, sah! Ah know, sah!" The negro's teeth 
were rattling, although the sweat stood heavy on his 
face. 

"All right, then. Start. Quiet, remember!" The 
Sergeant pointed in the direct line back toward his 
car. 

With deliberate pace, as if still searching, he pushed 
along, the negro before him creeping so cautiously that 
his captor's footsteps drowned such little sound as he 
made. 

So proceeding, they neared the verge of the marsh. 

"Duck!" whispered the Sergeant suddenly. 

The ray of a headlight lay across their path. 

Instantly the negro flattened himself on all fours, 
to glide like a dingy alligator among roots and under- 
brush, and through the black bog water. Unseen, he 
slid into the night beyond. 

Moving always like a careful searcher, the soldier 
used the utmost tongue of cover — the farthest string 
of laurel thicket extending toward the road. Then, 
where no more shelter offered, he spoke to the prisoner 
again. 

"See that car with its tail-light turned this way? 
We're after that. Steady, now, no matter what hap- 
pens. If you break you 're done" 

"Y-yes, sah!" 

With even, rapid, unhasty steps they moved 
through the open, in the lessened dark, and had come 
within sixty yards of the motor before any one but the 
Trooper standing by the wheel remarked their pas- 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 145 

sage. Then some nearest townsman detected the two 
figures, recognized the Sergeant's firm silhouette. 

"Hi! Trooper's got him!" he shouted. "Troop- 
er 's got him ! This way, boys ! " 

"Hi yi! Hurrah! Hurrah! Bring the rope! The 
rope! The rope!" 

In an instant the air was filled with shouts, wild 
laughter, and the sound of plunging footsteps, merg- 
ing into a shapeless, oncoming roar. 

"Into the car with you!" the Sergeant snapped. 

The negro sprang to obey, crouching on the floor of 
the tonneau. The Trooper at the wheel had pressed 
his self-starter. But the engine, it seemed, would 
balk. First Sergeant Snyder stood quietly at the side 
of the car, service Colt in hand, when the first man 
reached him on the run. 

"Give him here, we'll fix him!" he panted, and his 
voice rasped hoarse and hard. 

"He is my prisoner," the Sergeant answered coolly. 
"You will not lay a finger on him." 

The man stopped short, an oath on his lips — 
turned and shouted to his friends. 

"Here's the nigger! Here's the nigger that killed 
Dan Wagner. And the Troopers won't give him up ! " 

"The rope! The rope!" the gathering crowd 
howled back, brandishing shotguns and rifles, swing- 
ing pitchforks and crowbars and clubs. 

First Sergeant Snyder, jumping into the tonneau, 
stood to face them. It was the situation that he had 
foreseen from the first, 

"Gentlemen," said he, "this negro is under the pro- 
tection of the State. Not one of you will molest him." 



146 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

The faces before him, in sharp gleams and distorting 
patches, half swallowed by the night, seemed almost 
the faces of a strange people. There were Slavic types 
among them, Italians, Huns, — miners come in from 
the coal-fields roundabout. But most of them were 
farmers — Pennsylvania Dutch. And the good old 
Pennsylvania Dutch, in mind and in practice, are a 
law-abiding folk. 

But now these sturdy burghers, in a manner of 
speaking, had seen their dead. Daniel Wagner, hon- 
est man and honest neighbor, one of themselves, had 
been brutally slain, in the midst of their life — of their 
own most sacred and honored peace. It was as if the 
outrage had befallen each man's very hearth. It as- 
sailed the balance of their world. It was a thing to be 
stamped upon — to be strangled — and here, and now. 

" The rope ! The rope I " they howled. " The rope I " 

The Sergeant raised his revolver, slowly swinging 
it back and forth along the turbulent mass. 

"Stop where you are," said he coolly. And his 
voice, well tuned to be heard and obeyed, reached 
every man before him as clearly as if it came from the 
sky. "Not one move more. I shall defend the prisoner 
of the State" 

For a moment dead silence succeeded the words. 
Then came a broken, inarticulate murmur, hesitating, 
indeterminate — vague. With it mingled a new note 
— the song of the engine, spasmodic at first, but set- 
tling into a steady purr. Men's muscles began in- 
sensibly to relax — their eyes to become self-conscious. 
And the wheels of the car turned. 

" Let her go ! " the Sergeant threw over his shoulder. 




! *I SHALL DEFEND THE PRISONERS OF THE STATE" 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 147 

The Trooper let her go, indeed. 

Another minute and the lurid scene by the bog was 
sinking into a blot — a spark — had vanished in the 
engulfing night. 

Then the First Sergeant turned and looked down, 
where a big, lumpish bulk crouched shivering and 
sobbing at his knees. He thrust the Colt back into 
his holster. He took from his pocket some small 
thing that chinked. 

"Hold your hands up, Wilson," said he. "I'll put 
the irons on you now." 

"Yes, sah! Yes, sah, please!" 

Awhile they ran on in silence, the car lunging 
heavily over heavy roads. The prisoner sat by his 
captor's side, as limp as if every bone in his great body 
had turned to paste. 

"Wilson," said the Sergeant at last, "how many 
cartridges have you got on you?" 

"Reckon Ah's got 'bout forty, sah!" 

"And just what was the reason you did n't try to 
shoot me?" 

"Good Lawd ! " The feeling in the exclamation sur- 
passed all feigning. "Ah's jest a common nigger, 
but, praises be, Ah's no such fool as that! Don't 
Ah know what happened at Coatesville? Ain't Ah 
heard tell about you gen'lemans whiles Ah was in the 
Pen? Did n't Ah know, down there in that bog-hole, 
that a State Trooper comin' along was my onlies' 
chance on earth against — against — the slow fire 
and the stake? " 

Again a tremor shook his whole frame as the words 
chattered through his teeth. 



148 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Why, the sight of that uniform you-all's got on 
was the blessedest sight my eyes could see! Ah had 
n't never seen one bef o', but the fellers in the Pen done 
often describe it to me when they told what you 
State's men do. Me shoot a Trooper — and the stake- 
fire so nigh lit under me that Ah fair heerd it cracklin' 
and smelled my roastin' meat! Gawd! Oh, Gawd!" 

His voice cracked, negro-fashion, and he broke 
again into shivering tears. 

"But why," the Sergeant pursued, "did you shoot 
Daniel Wagner?" 

The sobs stopped short. Silence in the tonneau; 
after which the prisoner, having reflected, spoke. 

"I did n't shoot Dan'el Wagner." 

"Why did you shoot Daniel Wagner?" 

"Ah ain't goin' to say nothing, because Ah don't 
want to tell lies." 

And in this attitude the black steadily persisted 
even to the day of his trial, while his own simple 
vanity carried him in the interval far and farther 
wrong. 

Meantime, First Sergeant Snyder had been quietly 
pursuing his own devices, building up by faithful re- 
search the history of Charles Wilson's life. Shortly it 
stood on paper, systematically tabulated, with due 
indications of sources and of corroborative evidence 
in form. 

By this it appeared that until his sixteenth year 
Wilson had gone to school, taking fairly kindly to 
study; that he was bright, wrote an excellent hand, 
and had finished a common education. Thence he 
graduated so promptly and thoroughly into crime 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 149 

that only a year, more or less, had elapsed before he 
entered the Penitentiary. 

In the Penitentiary his record had been thoroughly 
bad, so that no commutation of his sentence was con- 
sidered. Released at last, he had moved quickly upon 
his old hunting-ground, Schuylkill County, his mind 
filled with the plan that he had sedulously nursed 
during his long years in prison. 

First, he was going to kill Charles Yeager, the man 
who had refused to plead that he be turned loose upon 
an unhappy countryside. Then, reenforced by the 
contents of Charles Yeager's purse, he would complete 
his programme at his ease. 

At Schuylkill's very threshold, Port Clinton, he had 
stopped to lay in material for his campaign. He had 
already bought a revolver with a store of cartridges, 
and the purchase had taken almost all his means. 
Still, by careful calculation, the little remainder would 
suffice to fulfil his purpose and to make him happy 
the while. 

Food was his first requisite — food enough to carry 
him, if need be, through an interval of dearth. In 
those nine years of prison, woven through his daily 
and nightly dream of liberty and revenge, had run a 
thread of lighter hue — the thought of doughnuts. 
Doughnuts had been his infant passion. Never in his 
life had he had his fill of their soft charms. Could 
he accomplish it now? 

He walked into a little thread-needle shop. "Ah 
want a piece of white cloth," said he. 

"What kind of white cloth?" asked the woman be- 
hind the counter. 



150 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

The negro seemed nonplussed. — "Why — jest 
white cloth, Ah reckon." 

"What do you want to do with it?" pursued the 
practically minded shopkeeper. 

"Why — why — to make — to make — maybe a 
pillow-case, maybe." 

The woman took down a bolt of pillow-case cotton, 
tore off a length sufficient to cover the sort of pillow 
that she assumed the negro would possess, rolled it 
up in a bit of wrapping-paper, and handed it to her 
customer. 

He thrust the parcel into his pocket. And, as he 
turned to leave the shop, she noticed that he was very 
carefully studying and muttering over the change 
that she had just laid in his palm. 

"Does that darky think I've cheated him?" she 
exclaimed to herself. 

Coming to the door, she watched him move down 
the street. 

Thus watching, she saw him stop short, and stare 
down an alleyway upon which opened the back doors 
of certain houses and shops. Then the negro turned 
into the alley and disappeared, to emerge at once 
carrying in his hand an old, half-wrecked, brown- 
painted bucket. 

"He's picked that up off the rubbish-heap. Must 
be a looney! I'll get back to my work," concluded 
the watcher, and gave the affair not a second thought 
until Sergeant Snyder's inquiry. 

A few moments later a comfortable baker of the 
neighborhood, sitting among his loaves and cakes in an 
atmosphere sweet to the noses of his patrons, heard 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 151 

his swan-necked doorbell tinkle and saw a negro enter 
the shop. 

"What can I do for you to-day?" asked the baker 
urbanely. 

"Doughnuts!" breathed the negro — a very large 
man — and the baker remarked how his great mouth 
enwrapped and fondled the word. " Is you-all got any 
doughnuts?" 

"Heaps of 'em," the baker responded, with sym- 
pathetic unction. "Hot and fresh. How many will 
you have?" 

The negro slapped a handful of silver down upon 
the counter. 

"You don't want all that!" exclaimed the baker, 
startled out of his tradesman's poise. 

"Put 'em in this here bucket, let me see," the other 
replied. 

Handful after handful, the baker cast them in, 
packing them evenly to save room. Now and again 
he looked at his customer, to catch the sign "enough." 

But always the negro's eyes stared into the filling 
bucket, while his lips worked accordeon-wise in suc- 
culent delight. 

At last the level reached the bucket's battered rim. 

"You've still got thirty- two cents left," said the 
baker. 

"Heap her up, high's she'll stand. Then we'll tie 
a piece of paper over the top." 

The thing was done. But still some silver remained 
unconverted into doughnuts. 

"Ah '11 tote the rest in my pockets," said the negro. 
And so, with both coat-skirts bulging, and with his 



152 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

precious bucket under his arm, he left the shop penni- 
less, making off in the direction of the railway station. 

Then, in short order, came his stolen ride, his ad- 
venture with the railroad policeman, his acquisition of 
a second revolver, and his sudden alarm at the sight of 
the reception committee awaiting him at Tamaqua 
Station. 

Slipping off his grimy conveyance at this point, and 
taking to the woods, he had not forgotten to carry his 
bucket with him. And whenever he turned to fire, his 
pursuers, from their distance, had seen without recog- 
nizing the dark bulk under his arm. 

Cutting across a country once wholly familiar to 
him, and which had changed in little or nothing during 
his nine years' absence, Wilson soon emerged in the 
village of New Philadelphia. Here, entering a saloon, 
he made talk with the loungers there, incidentally 
asking, as the bar-keeper later recalled, whether 
Charles Yeager still did his marketing in the little 
town. 

"Sure," said the bar-keeper; "he comes in on 
Tuesdays." 

"Got his regular day, has he?" the other rejoined. 

"Regular as clock-work, Yeager is." 

That night the negro slept in the open. Next morn- 
ing, Sunday, he knocked at the door of a cottage on 
the outskirts of the village, begging ten cents to pay 
his fare to Pottsville. 

Later in the day the middle-aged woman who had 
answered his knock and given the alms said to her 
husband : — 

"Joe, I've just remembered who that big darky 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 153 

is — him that came begging with the bucket under his 
arm. It 's that rascal Charles Wilson that they sent to 
the Pen eight or nine years ago. I'll think my ten 
cents well spent if it takes him away from here, that I 
will!" 

Wilson, in very fact, took the trolley to Pottsville, 
but alighted at some distance on the hither side of the 
town, climbed into the hills and found a lair in an old 
abandoned shed. Here he lay hidden; and here — for 
the Sergeant found the exact bits of cotton on the 
ground — he fashioned his Jack-o'-lantern mask, 
knotting the cloth together and cutting the holes for 
eyes, nose, and mouth. 

Then, in the dark of Tuesday morning, once more 
he resumed the familiar wood trails over Tuscarora 
Mountain, toward the road that Yeager must travel 
on his way from his farm to New Philadelphia. In 
the first light of Tuesday's dawn a matutinal farmer 
chanced to see a great negro passing toward the New 
Philadelphia road, and the farmer noticed that the 
negro carried in his hand a brown pail. 

Knowing that the railroad police must be on his 
track, Wilson had no fancy to expose himself by light 
of day. Therefore, having gained the position on the 
highroad that he sought, he effaced himself there in 
the tall, dead grass, to await the hour of his revenge. 
And so, being a true negro, no sooner was he quiet and 
comfortable than he fell fast asleep. 

When he awakened, the sun was high overhead, 
and he knew that Yeager, if indeed he had gone to 
market that day, had passed him by. 

But, "What goes up must come down." So he 



154 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

lay easily dozing and waiting until after the hour of 
four. 

He was putting a doughnut into his mouth when the 
creak and rumble of heavy wheels caught his atten- 
tion. Parting the grasses, peering stealthily through, 
he saw coming down the road a wagon such as every 
farmer in the region drives. Nodding on the box, sat 
Charles Yeager — the very image of Charles Yeager 
as he had known him years ago. 

The negro's eyes turned red. Snatching at his 
pocket, he jerked out his mask and fitted it over his 
head. Then, as the wagon drew abreast, he leaped to 
the side of the road, firing point-blank at the uncon- 
scious figure before him — at the man, as he believed, 
whose death he had vowed, and whose purse should 
now finance him. 

But his leap and his shot undid the plan. From 
under his very fingers the terrified horses swept his 
plunder away, and sped the news of his wickedness. 

And now he must have money. From the hue and 
cry that would soon be sharp on his heels, he must 
have means to escape, farther and faster than his 
legs could carry him. Where was he to find it? 

He did not suspect that Charles Yeager, with a 
well-stuffed wallet in his pocket, was jogging straight 
toward him, down the New Philadelphia road — 
Charles Yeager, who nine long years ago had looked 
as Daniel Wagner looked to-day. He did not know 
that his revenge had failed utterly and that he had 
sold his right to live, by the fruitless murder of a 
stranger. 

And so, racking his brains for help, he thought of 



THE HUNGRY ROPE 155 

his mother, in her cottage down in Pottsville. She, of 
course, would give him all she had. And, under the 
cover of night, he could visit her and get away with- 
out recognition. Therefore, abandoning his empty 
bucket, forgetting even a doughnut in his fright, un- 
consciously leaving the unconscious Yeager close be- 
hind him, he cut across the mountain once more, and 
descended into Pottsville. 

Stealing up on his mother's house, he crept through 
her chamber window, finding his burglar's skill but 
little rusted as he noiselessly moved within. Voices in 
the kitchen. He would listen, sneaking near. And lo! 
he himself, his bygone life, and certain unpleasant 
later details, made the subject of the talk. It was his 
mother, innocently gossiping with a detective! 

What a joke on her! What a joke on every one 
concerned! Wilson's racial bravado, with his racial 
spirit of careless laughter, did the rest. He could not 
resist the temptation to speak. 

"Ah reckon Ah '11 be goin' now," he tossed at the 
pair, and fled into the outer night. 

So much of the story of the negro's latter days at 
large did First Sergeant Snyder rapidly and exactly 
build up from sound foundations of fact supported 
by ample evidence. These facts, orderly presented in 
form for immediate use, and this evidence, reposed on 
the day of the trial in the hands of District Attorney 
Whitehouse, of Schuylkill County. 

Charles Wilson, led into Court, walked with a 
swaggering lurch that told its own tale of restored 
self-confidence. 

As the irons dropped from his wrists he turned 



156 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

deliberately to bestow on Judge-President Bechtel, 
whose life he had promised to take, a look so boldly 
evil that a State Trooper quietly moved to the front 
of the Judge's seat. 

Then, as the trial opened, the vanity of the prisoner 
reached its height. Having pleaded "Not Guilty" on 
all counts, he now proceeded to discard his able coun- 
sel and to conduct his own defense. 

But even without that folly, his case was hopeless. 
First Sergeant Snyder's structure, built on scientific 
legal lines, in the manner of the State Police, stood 
like rock. Beginning with the revolver taken from 
the railway officer on the top of the coal-car at Port 
Clinton and recovered by First Sergeant Snyder from 
the negro in the swamp, the series of exhibits was com- 
plete. The roster of witnesses showed as handsomely. 

It was therefore due solely to an extraneous circum- 
stance that the prisoner escaped with his life. Daniel 
Wagner, after days in the very doorway of the other 
world, was getting well — was now safe. Conse- 
quently Wilson's sentence, which must otherwise 
have been the electric chair, became twelve years in 
prison. 

After those twelve years, what? 



VI 

ISRAEL DRAKE 

ISRAEL DRAKE was a bandit for simple love of 
the thing. To hunt for another reason would be a 
waste of time. The blood in his veins was pure Eng- 
lish, unmixed since long ago. His environment was 
that of his neighbors. His habitat was the noble hills. 
But Israel Drake was a bandit, just as his neighbors 
were farmers — just as a hawk is a hawk while its 
neighbors are barnyard fowls. 

Israel Drake was swarthy-visaged, high of cheek- 
bone, with large, dark, deep-set eyes, and a thin- 
lipped mouth covered by a long and drooping black 
mustache. Barefooted, he stood six feet two inches 
tall. Lean as a panther, and as supple, he could clear 
a five-foot rail fence without the aid of his hand. He 
ran like a deer. As a woodsman the very deer could 
have taught him little. With rifle and revolver he was 
an expert shot, and the weapons he used were the 
truest and best. 

All the hill-people of Cumberland County dreaded 
him. All the scattered valley-folk spoke softly at his 
name. And the jest and joy of Israel's care-free life 
was to make them skip and shiver and dance to the 
tune of their trepidations. 

As a matter of fact, he was leader of a gang, out- 
laws every one. But his own strong aura eclipsed the 
rest, and he glared alone, in the thought of his world, 
endued with terrors of diverse origin. 



158 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

His genius kept him fully aware of the value of 
this preeminence, and it lay in his wisdom and pleas- 
ure to fan the flame of his own repute. In this it 
amused him to seek the picturesque — the unex- 
pected. With an imagination fed by primeval humor 
and checked by no outward circumstance of law, he 
achieved a ready facility. Once, for example, while 
trundling through his town of Shippensburg on the 
rear platform of a freight train, he chanced to spy a 
Borough Constable crossing a bridge near the track. 

"Happy thought! Let's touch the good soul up. 
He's getting stodgy." 

Israel drew a revolver and fired, neatly nicking the 
Constable's hat. Then with a mountaineer's hoot, 
he gayly proclaimed his identity. 

Again, and many times, he would send into this or 
that town or settlement a message addressed to the 
Constable or Chief of Police: — 

"I am coming down this afternoon. Get away out 
of town. Don't let me find you there." 

Obediently they went away. And Israel, strolling 
the streets that afternoon just as he had promised to 
do, would enter shop after shop, look over the stock 
at his leisure, and, with perfect good-humor, pick out 
out whatever pleased him, regardless of cost. 

"I think I'll take this here article," he would say 
to the trembling store-keeper, affably pocketing his 
choice. 

"Help yourself, Mr. Drake! Help yourself, sir! 
Glad we are able to please you to-day." 

Which was indeed the truth. And many of them 
there were who would have hastened to curry favor 



ISRAEL DRAKE 159 

with their persecutor by whispering in his ear a word 
of warning had they known of any impending at- 
tempt against him by the agents of peace. 

Such was their estimate of the relative strength of 
Israel Drake and of the law forces of the Sovereign 
State of Pennsylvania. 

In the earlier times they had tried to arrest him. 
Once the attempt succeeded and Israel went to the 
Penitentiary for a term. But he emerged a better and 
wilier bandit than before, to embark upon a career 
that made his former life seem tame. Sheriffs and 
Constables now proved powerless against him, what- 
ever they essayed. 

Then came a grand, determined effort when the 
Sheriff, supported by fifteen deputies, all heavily 
armed, actually surrounded Drake's house. But the 
master-outlaw, alone and at ease at an upper window, 
his Winchester repeating-rifle in his hand and a smile 
of still content on his face, coolly stood the whole 
army off until, weary of empty danger, it gave up the 
siege and went home. 

This disastrous expedition ended the attempts of 
the local authorities to capture Israel Drake. Thence- 
forth he pursued his natural course without pretense 
of let or hindrance. At the time when this story be- 
gins, no fewer than fourteen warrants were out for 
his apprehension, issued on charges ranging from 
burglary and highway robbery through a long list 
of felonies. But the warrants, slowly accumulating, 
lay in the bottom of official drawers, apprehending 
nothing but dust. No one undertook to serve them. 
Life was too sweet — too short. 



160 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Then came a turn of fate. Israel chanced to be- 
think himself of a certain aged farmer living with his 
old wife near a spot called Lee's Cross-Road. The 
two dwelt by themselves, without companions on 
their farm, and without neighbors. And they were 
reputed to have money. 

The money might not be much — might be ex- 
ceedingly little. But, even so, Israel could use it, and 
in any event there would be the fun of the trick. So 
Israel summoned one Carey Morrison, a gifted mate 
and subordinate, with whom he proceeded to act. 

At dead of night the two broke into the farmhouse 
— crept into the chamber of the old pair — crept 
softly, softly, lest the farmer might keep a shotgun 
by his side. Sneaking to the foot of the bed, Israel 
suddenly flashed his lantern full upon the pillows — 
upon the two pale, deep-seamed faces crowned with 
silver hair. 

The woman sat up with a piercing scream. The 
farmer clutched at his gun. But Israel, bringing the 
glinting barrel of his revolver into the lantern's shaft 
of light, ordered both to lie down. Carey, slouching 
at hand, awaited orders. 

"Where is your money?" demanded Israel, indi- 
cating the farmer by the point of his gun. 

"I have no money, you coward!" 

" It 's no use your lying to me. Where 's the money ? " 

"I have no money, I tell you." 

"Carey," observed Israel, "hunt a candle." 

While Carey looked for the candle, Israel surveyed 
his victims with a cheerful, anticipatory grin. 

The candle came; was lighted. 



ISRAEL DRAKE 161 

"Carey," Israel spoke again, "you pin the old 
woman down. Pull the quilt off. Clamp her feet to- 
gether. So!" ! 

Then he thrust the candle-flame against the soles 
of those gnarled old feet — thrust it close, while the 
flame bent upward, and the melting tallow poured 
upon the bed. 

The woman screamed again, this time in pain. The 
farmer half rose, with a quivering cry of rage, but 
Israel's gun stared him between the eyes. The woman 
screamed without interval. There was a smell of 
burning flesh. 

"Now we'll change about," remarked Israel, beam- 
ing. "I'll hold the old feller. You take the candle, 
Carey. You don't reely need your gun — now, do ye, 
boy!" 

And so they began afresh. 

It was not a game to last long. Before dawn the 
two were back in their own place, bearing the little 
all of value that the rifled house had contained. 

When the news of the matter spread abroad, it 
seemed, somehow, just a straw too much. The Dis- 
trict Attorney of the County of Cumberland blazed 
into white heat. But he was powerless, he found. Not 
an officer within his entire jurisdiction expressed any 
willingness even to attempt an arrest. 

"Then we shall see," said District Attorney Rhey, 
"what the State will do for us, since we cannot help 
ourselves!" And he rushed off a telegram, confirmed 
by post, to the Superintendent of the Department 
of State Police. 

The Superintendent of the Department of State 



162 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Police promptly referred the matter to the Captain 
of "C" Troop, with orders to act. For Cumberland 
County, being within the southeastern quarter of 
the Commonwealth, lies under "C" Troop's special 
care. 

It was Adams, in those days, who held that com- 
mand — Lynn G. Adams, now Captain of " A " Troop, 
although for the duration of the war serving in the 
regular army, even as his fathers before him have 
served in our every war, including that which put the 
country on the map. Truer soldier, finer officer, braver 
or straighter or surer dealer with men and things need 
not be sought. His victories leave no needless scar be- 
hind, and his command would die by inches rather 
than fail him anywhere. 

The Captain of "C" Troop, then, choosing with 
judgment, picked his man — picked Trooper Edward 
Hallisey, a Boston Irishman, square of jaw, shrewd of 
eye, quick of wit, strong of wind and limb. And he 
ordered Private Hallisey to proceed at once to Car- 
lisle, county seat of Cumberland, and report to the 
District Attorney for service toward effecting the ap- 
prehension of Israel Drake. 

Three days later — it was the 28th of September, 
to be exact — Private Edward Hallisey sent in his 
report to his Troop Commander. He had made all 
necessary observations, he said, and was ready to 
arrest the criminal. In this he would like to have 
the assistance of two Troopers, who should join him 
at Carlisle. 

The report came in the morning mail. First Ser- 
geant Price detailed two men from the Barracks re- 



ISRAEL DRAKE 163 

serve. They were Privates H. K. Merryfield and Har- 
vey J. Smith. Their orders were simply to proceed 
at once, in civilian clothes, to Carlisle, where they 
would meet Private Hallisey and assist him in effect- 
ing the arrest of Israel Drake. 

Privates Merryfield and Smith, carrying in addi- 
tion to their service revolvers the 44-calibre Spring- 
field carbine which is the Force's heavy weapon, left 
by the next train. 

On the Carlisle station platform, as the two Troop- 
ers debarked, some hundred persons were gathered 
in pursuance of various and centrifugal designs. But 
one impulse they appeared unanimously to share — 
the impulse to give as wide a berth as possible to a 
peculiarly horrible tramp. 

Why should a being like that intrude himself upon 
a passenger platform in a respectable county town? 
Not to board a coach, surely, for such as he pay no 
fares. To spy out the land? To steal luggage? Or 
simply to make himself hateful to decent folk? 

He carried his head with a hangdog lurch — his 
heavy jaw was rough with stubble beard. His coat 
and trousers fluttered rags and his toes stuck out of 
his boots. Women snatched back their skirts as he 
slouched near, and men muttered and scowled at 
him for a contaminating beast. 

Merryfield and Smith, drifting near this scum of 
the earth, caught the words "Four-thirty train" and 
the name of a station. 

"Right," murmured Merryfield. 

Then he went and bought tickets. 

In the shelter of an ancient, grimy day-coach, the 



164 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

scum muttered again, as Smith brushed past him in 
the aisle. 

"Charles Stover's farm," said he. 

"M'm," said Smith. 

At a scrap of a station, in the foothills of ascend- 
ing heights the tramp and the Troopers separately 
detrained. In the early evening all three strayed to- 
gether once more in the shadow of the lilacs by 
Charles Stover's gate. 

Over the supper-table Hallisey gave the news. 
"Drake is somewhere on the mountain to-night," 
said he. "His cabin is way up high, on a ridge called 
Huckleberry Patch. He is practically sure to go home 
in the course of the evening. Then is our chance. 
First, of course, you fellows will change your clothes. 
I've got some old things ready for you." 

Farmer Stover, like every other denizen of the rural 
county, had lived for years in terror and hatred of 
Israel Drake. Willingly he had aided Hallisey to the 
full extent of his power. He had told all that he knew 
of the bandit's habits and mates. He had indicated 
the mountain trails and he had given the Trooper 
such little shelter and food as the latter had stopped 
to take during his rapid work of investigation. But 
now he was asked to perform a service that he would 
gladly have refused; he was asked to hitch up a horse 
and wagon and to drive the three Troopers to the 
very vicinity of Israel Drake's house. 

"Oh, come on, Mr. Stover," they urged. "You 're a 
public-spirited man, as you've shown. Do it for your 
neighbors' sake if not for your own. You want the 
county rid of this pest." 



ISRAEL DRAKE 165 

Very reluctantly the farmer began the trip. With 
every turn of the ever-mounting forest road his 
reluctance grew. Grisly memories, grisly pictures, 
flooded his mind. It was night, and the trees in the 
darkness whispered like evil men. The bushes huddled 
like crouching figures. And what was it, moving 
stealthily over there, that crackled twigs? At last he 
could bear it no more. 

" Here 's where I turn 'round," he muttered hoarsely. 
"If you fellers are going farther you'll go alone. I 
got a use for my life!" 

"All right, then," said Hallisey. "You've done 
well by us already. Good-night." 

It was a fine moonlight night and Hallisey now 
knew those woods as well as did his late host. He led 
his two comrades up another stiff mile of steady climb- 
ing. Then he struck off, by an almost invisible trail, 
into the dense timber. Silently the three men moved, 
threading the fragrant, silver-flecked blackness with 
practised woodsmen's skill. At last their file-leader 
stopped and beckoned his mates. 

Over his shoulder the two studied the scene before 
them: A clearing chopped out of the dense tall timber. 
In the midst of the clearing a log cabin, a story and 
a half high. On two sides of the cabin a straggling 
orchard of peach and apple trees. In the cabin window 
a dim light. 

It was then about eleven o'clock. The three Troop- 
ers, effacing themselves in the shadows, laid final plans. 

The cabin had two rooms on the top floor and one 
below, said Hallisey, beneath his breath. The first- 
floor room had a door and two windows on the north, 



166 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

and the same on the south, just opposite. Under the 
west end was a cellar, with an outside door. Before the 
main door to the north was a little porch. This, by 
day, commanded the sweep of the mountain-side; and 
here, when Drake was "hiding out" in some neigh- 
boring eyrie, expecting pursuit, his wife was wont to 
signal him concerning the movements of intruders. 

Her code was written in dish-water. A panful 
thrown to the east meant danger in the west, and vice 
versa ; this Hallisey himself had seen and now recalled 
in case of need. 

Up to the present moment each officer had carried 
his carbine, taken apart and wrapped in a bundle, 
to avoid the remark of chance observers by the way. 
Now each put his weapon together, ready for use. 
They compared their watches, setting them to the 
second. They discarded their coats and hats. 

The moon was flooding the clearing with high, 
pale light, adding greatly to the difficulty of their 
task. Accordingly, they plotted carefully. Each 
Trooper took a door — Hallisey that to the north, 
Merryfield that to the south, Smith that of the cellar. 
It was agreed that each should creep to a point op- 
posite the door on which he was to advance, ten 
minutes being allowed for all to reach their initial 
positions; that at exactly five minutes to midnight 
the advance should be started, slowly, through the 
tall grass of the clearing toward the cabin; that in 
case of any unusual noise or alarm, each man should 
lie low for exactly five minutes before resuming this 
advance; and that from a point fifty yards from the 
cabin a rush should be made upon the doors. 



ISRAEL DRAKE 167 

According to the request of the District Attorney, 
Drake was to be taken "dead or alive," but according 
to an adamantine principle of the Force, he must be 
taken not only alive, but unscathed if that were hu- 
manly possible. This meant that he must not be given 
an opportunity to run and so render shooting neces- 
sary. If, however, he should break away, his chance 
of escape would be small, as each Trooper was a dead 
shot with the weapons he was carrying. 

The scheme concerted, the three officers separated, 
heading apart to their several starting-points. At 
five minutes before midnight, to the tick of their syn- 
chronized watches, each began to glide through the 
tall grass. But it was late September. The grass 
was dry. Old briar-vines dragged at brittle stalks. 
Shimmering whispers of withered leaves echoed to 
the smallest touch; and when the men were still some 
two hundred yards from the cabin the sharp ears of 
a dog caught the rumor of all these tiny sounds, — 
and the dog barked. 

Every man stopped short — moved not a finger 
again till five minutes had passed. Then once more 
each began to creep — reached the fifty-yard point 
— stood up, with a long breath, and dashed for his 
door. 

At one and the same moment, practically, the three 
stood in the cabin, viewing a scene of domestic peace. 
A short, square, swarthy woman, black of eye, high 
of cheek-bone, stood by the stove calmly stirring a 
pot. On the table beside her, on the floor around her, 
clustered many jars of peaches — jars freshly filled, 
steaming hot, awaiting their tops. In a corner three 



168 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

little children, huddled together on a low bench, 
stared at the strangers with sleepy eyes. Three chairs; 
a cupboard with dishes; bunches of corn hanging from 
the rafters by their husks; festoons of onions; tassels 
of dried herbs — all this made visible by the dull light 
of a small kerosene lamp whose dirty chimney was 
streaked with smoke. All this and nothing more. 

Two of the men, jumping for the stairs, searched 
the upper half -story thoroughly, but without profit. 

"Mrs. Drake," said Hallisey, as they returned, 
"we are officers of the State Police, come to arrest 
your husband. Where is he?" 

In silence, in utter calm the woman still stirred her 
pot, not missing the rhythm of a stroke. 

"The dog warned them. He's just got away," said 
each officer to himself. "She's too calm." 

She scooped up a spoonful of fruit, peered at it 
critically, splashed it back into the bubbling pot. 
From her manner it appeared the most natural thing 
in the world to be canning peaches at midnight on 
the top of South Mountain in the presence of officers 
of the State Police. 

"My husband's gone to Baltimore," she vouch- 
safed at her easy leisure. 

"Let's have a look in the cellar," said Merryfield, 
and dropped down the cellar stairs with Hallisey at 
his heels. Together they ransacked the little cave 
to a conclusion. During the process, Merryfield con- 
ceived an idea. 

"Hallisey," he murmured, "what would you think 
of my staying down here, while you and Smith go off 
talking as though we were all together? She might say 



ISRAEL DRAKE 169 

something to the children, when she believes we're 
gone, and I could hear every word through that thin 
floor." 

"We'll do it!" Hallisey answered, beneath his 
voice. Then, shouting: — 

"Come on, Smith! Let's get away from this; no 
use wasting time here!" 

And in another moment Smith and Hallisey were 
crashing up the mountain-side, calling out: "Hi, 
there! Merry field — Oh! Merryfield, wait for us!" — - 
as if their comrade had outstripped them on the trail. 

Merryfield had made use of the noise of their de- 
parture to establish himself in a tenable position under 
the widest crack in the floor. Now he held himself 
motionless, subduing even his breath. 

One — two — three minutes of dead silence. Then 
came the timorous half- whisper of a frightened child : 

"Will them men kill father if they find him?" 

"S-sh!" 

"Mother!" faintly ventured another little voice, 
"will them men kill father if they find him?" 

"S-sh! S-sh! I tell ye!" 

"Ma-ma! Will they kill my father?" This was the 
wail, insistent, uncontrolled, of the smallest child of 
all. 

The crackling tramp of the officers, mounting the 
trail, had wholly died away. The woman evidently 
believed all immediate danger past. 

"No ! " she exclaimed vehemently, "they ain't goin* 
to lay eyes on yo' father, hair nor hide of him. Quit 
yerfrettin'!" 

In a moment she spoke again : "You keep still, now, 



170 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

like good children, while I go out and empty these 
peach-stones. I '11 be back in a minute. See you keep 
still just where you are!" 

Stealing noiselessly to the cellar door as the woman 
left the house, Merryfield saw her making for the 
woods, a basket on her arm. He watched her till the 
shadows engulfed her. Then he drew back to his own 
place and resumed his silent vigil. 

Moments passed, without a sound from the room 
above. Then came soft little thuds on the floor, a 
whimper or two, small sighs, and a slither of bare legs 
on bare boards. 

" Poor little kiddies ! " thought Merryfield, " they 're 
coiling down to sleep!" 

Back in the days when the Force was started, the 
Major had said to each recruit of them all: — 

"I expect you to treat women and children at all 
times with every consideration." 

From that hour forth the principle has been grafted 
into the lives of the men. It is instinct now — self- 
acting, deep, and unconscious. No tried Trooper de- 
liberately remembers it. It is an integral part of him, 
like the drawing of his breath. 

"I wish I could manage to spare those babies and 
their mother in what's to come!" Merryfield pon- 
dered as he lurked in the mould-scented dark. 

A quarter of an hour went by. Five minutes more. 
Footsteps nearing the cabin from the direction of the 
woods. Low voices — very low. Indistinguishable 
words. Then the back door opened. Two persons 
entered, and all that they now uttered was clear. 

"It was them that the dog heard," said a man's 



ISRAEL DRAKE 171 

voice. "Get me my rifle and all my ammunition. I'll 
go to Maryland. I'll get a job on that stone quarry 
near Westminster. I'll send some money as soon as 
I'm paid." 

"But you won't start to-night !" exclaimed the wife. 

"Yes, to-night — this minute. Quick! I would n't 
budge an inch for the County folks. But with the 
State Troopers after me, that's another thing. If I 
stay around here now they '11 get me dead sure — and 
send me up too. My gun, I say!" 

"Oh, daddy, daddy, don't go away!" "Don't go 
away off and leave me, daddy ! " " Don't go, don't go ! " 
came the children's plaintive wails, hoarse with fa- 
tigue and fright. 

Merryfield stealthily crept from the cellar's out- 
side door, hugging the wall of the cabin, moving to- 
ward the rear. As he reached the corner, and was 
about to make the turn toward the back, he drew his 
six-shooter and laid his carbine down in the grass. 
For the next step, he knew, would bring him into 
plain sight. If Drake offered any resistance, the en- 
suing action would be at short range or hand to 
hand. 

He rounded the corner. Drake was standing just 
outside the door, a rifle in his left hand, his right hand 
hidden in the pocket of his overcoat. In the doorway 
stood the wife, with the three little children crowding 
before her. It was the last moment. They were say- 
ing good-bye. 

Merryfield covered the bandit with his revolver. 

"Put up your hands! You are under arrest," he 
commanded. 



172 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Who the hell are you!" Drake flung back. Ashe 
spoke he thrust his rifle into the grasp of the woman 
and snatched his right hand from its concealment. In 
its grip glistened the barrel of a nickel-plated revolver. 

Merryfield could easily have shot him then and 
there — would have been amply warranted in doing 
so. But he had heard the children's voices. Now he 
saw their innocent, terrified eyes. 

"Poor — little — kiddies!" he thought again. 

Drake stood six feet two inches high, and weighed 
some two hundred pounds, all brawn. Furthermore, 
he was desperate. Merryfield is merely of medium 
build. 

"Nevertheless, I'll take a chance," he said to him- 
self, returning his six-shooter to its holster. And just 
as the outlaw threw up his own weapon to fire, the 
Trooper, in a running jump, plunged into him with 
all fours, exactly as, when a boy, he had plunged off 
a springboard into the old mill-dam of a hot July 
afternoon. 

Too amazed even to pull his trigger, Drake gave 
backward a step into the doorway. Merryfield's 
clutch toward his right hand missed the gun, fasten- 
ing instead on the sleeve of his heavy coat. Swearing 
wildly while the woman and children screamed be- 
hind him, the bandit struggled to break the Trooper's 
hold — tore and pulled until the sleeve, where Merry- 
field held it, worked down over the gun in his own 
grip. So Merryfield, twisting the sleeve, caught a 
lock-hold on hand and gun together. 

Drake, standing on the doorsill, had now some 
eight inches advantage of height. The door opened 



ISRAEL DRAKE 173 

inward, from right to left. With a tremendous effort 
Drake forced his assailant to his knees, stepped back 
into the room, seized the door with his left hand and 
with the whole weight of his shoulder slammed it to, 
on the Trooper's wrist. 

The pain was excruciating — but it did not break 
that lock-hold on the outlaw's hand and gun. Shoot- 
ing from his knees like a projectile, Merryfield flung 
his whole weight at the door. Big as Drake was, he 
could not hold it. It gave, and once more the two 
men hung at grips, this time within the room. 

Drake's one purpose was to turn the muzzle of his 
imprisoned revolver upon Merryfield. Merryfield, 
with his left still clinching that deadly hand caught in 
its sleeve, now grabbed the revolver in his own right 
hand, with a twist dragged it free, and flung it out of 
the door. 

But, as he dropped his right defense, taking both 
hands to the gun, the outlaw's powerful left grip 
closed on Merryfield 's throat with a str angle-hold. 

With that great thumb closing his windpipe, with 
the world turning red and black, "Guess I can't put 
it over, after all!" the Trooper said to himself. 

Reaching for his own revolver, he shoved the 
muzzle against the bandit's breast. 

"Damn you, shoot!" cried the other, believing his 
end was come. 

But in that same instant Merryfield once more 
caught a glimpse of the fear-stricken faces of the 
babies, huddled together beyond. 

"Hallisey and Smith must be here soon," he 
thought. "I won't shoot yet." 



174 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Again he dropped his revolver back into the hol- 
ster, seizing the wrist of the outlaw to release that 
terrible clamp on his throat. As he did so, Drake, 
with a lightning twist, reached around to the Troop- 
er's belt and possessed himself of the gun. As he 
fired Merryfield had barely time and space to throw 
back his head. The flash blinded him — scorched his 
face hairless. The bullet grooved his body under the 
upflung left arm still wrenching at the clutch that 
was shutting off his breath. 

Perhaps, with the shot, the outlaw insensibly some- 
what relaxed that choking grip. Merryfield tore loose. 
Half-blinded and gasping though he was, he flung 
himself again at his adversary and landed a blow in 
his face. Drake, giving backward, kicked over a row 
of peach jars, slipped on the slimy stream that poured 
over the bare floor, and dropped the gun. 

Pursuing his advantage, Merryfield delivered blow 
after blow on the outlaw's face and body, backing 
him around the room, while both men slipped and 
slid, fell and recovered, on the jam-coated floor. The 
table crashed over, carrying with it the solitary 
lamp, whose flame died harmlessly, smothered in 
tepid mush. Now only the moonlight illumined the 
scene. 

Drake was manoeuvring always to recover the gun. 
His hand touched the back of a chair. He picked the 
chair up, swung it high, and was about to smash it 
down on his adversary's head when Merryfield seized 
it in the air. 

At this moment the woman, who had been crouch- 
ing against the wall nursing the rifle that her husband 



ISRAEL DRAKE 175 

had put into her charge, rushed forward clutching 
the barrel of the gun, swung it at full arm's length as 
she would have swung an axe, and brought the stock 
down on the Trooper's right hand. 

That vital hand dropped — fractured, done. But 
in the same second Drake gave a shriek of pain as a 
shot rang out and his own right arm fell powerless. 

In the door stood Hallisey, smoking revolver in 
hand, smiling grimly, in the moonlight, at the neat- 
ness of his own aim. What is the use of killing a man, 
when you can wing him as trigly as that? 

Private Smith, who had entered by the other door, 
was taking the rifle out of the woman's grasp — 
partly because she had prodded him viciously with 
the muzzle. He examined the chambers. 

"Do you know this thing is loaded?" he asked her 
in a mild, detached voice. 

She returned his gaze with frank despair in her 
black eyes. 

"Drake, do you surrender?" asked Hallisey. 

"Oh, I'll give up. You've got me!" groaned the 
outlaw. Then he turned on his wife with bitter anger. 
"Did n't I tell ye?" he snarled. "Didn't I tell ye 
they'd get me if you kept me hangin' around here? 
These ain't no damn deputies. These is the State 
Police!" 

"An' yet, if I'd known that gun was loaded," said 
she, " there 'd 'a' been some less of 'em to-night!" 

They dressed Israel's arm in first-aid fashion. 
Then they started with their prisoner down the 
mountain-trail, at last resuming connection with their 
farmer friend. Not without misgivings, the latter 



176 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

consented to hitch up his "double team" and hurry 
the party to the nearest town where a doctor could 
be found. 

As the doctor dressed the bandit's arm, Private 
Merryfield, whose broken right hand yet awaited 
care, observed to the groaning patient: — 

"Do you know, you can be thankful to your little 
children that you have your life left." 

"To hell with you and the children and my life. 
I 'd a hundred times rather you 'd killed me than take 
what's comin' now." 

Then the three Troopers philosophically hunted up 
a night restaurant and gave their captive a bite of 
lunch. 

"Now," said Hallisey, as he paid the score, "where 's 
the lock-up?" 

The three officers, with Drake in tow, proceeded 
silently through the sleeping streets. Not a ripple did 
their passing occasion. Not even a dog aroused to 
take note of them. 

Duly they stood at the door of the custodian of the 
lock-up, ringing the bell — again and again ringing 
it. Eventually some one upstairs raised a window, 
looked out for an appreciable moment, quickly low- 
ered the window, and locked it. Nothing further oc- 
curred. Waiting for a reasonable interval the officers 
rang once more. No answer. Silence complete. 

Then they pounded on the door till the entire block 
heard. 

Here, there, up street and down, bedroom windows 
gently opened, then closed with finality more gentle 
yet. Silence. Not a voice. Not a foot on a stair. 



ISRAEL DRAKE 177 

The officers looked at each other perplexed. Then, 
by chance, they looked at Drake. Drake, so lately 
black with suicidal gloom, was grinning! Grinning as 
a man does when the citadel of his heart is comforted. 

"You don't understand, do ye!" chuckled he. 
"Well, I'll tell ye: What do them folks see when they 
open their windows and look down here in the road? 
They see three hard-lookin' fellers with guns in their 
hands, here in this bright moonlight. And they see 
somethin' scarier to them than a hundred strangers 
with guns — they see ME! There ain't a mother's 
son of 'em that'll budge downstairs while I'm here, 
not if you pound on their doors till the cows come 
home." And he slapped his knee with his good hand 
and laughed in pure ecstasy — a laugh that caught all 
the little group and rocked it as with one mind. 

"We don't begrudge you that, do we, boys?" 
Hallisey conceded. "Smith, you're as respectable- 
looking as any of us. Hunt around and see if you can 
find a Constable that isn't onto this thing. We'll 
wait here for you." 

Moving out of the zone of the late demonstration, 
Private Smith learned the whereabouts of the home 
of a Constable. 

"What's wanted?" asked the Constable, respond- 
ing like a normal burgher to Smith's knock at his 
door. 

"Officer of State Police," answered Smith. "I have 
a man under arrest and want to put him in the lock- 
up. Will you get me the keys?" 

"Sure. I'll come right down and go along with you 
myself. Just give me a jiffy to get on my trousers and 



178 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

boots," cried the Constable, clearly glad of a share in 
adventure. 

In a moment the borough official was at the Troop- 
er's side, talking eagerly as they moved toward the 
place where the party waited. 

"So he's a highwayman, is he? Good! And a bur- 
glar, too, and a cattle-thief! Good work! And you've 
got him right up the street here, ready to jail! Well, 
I'll be switched. Now, what might his name be? 
Israel Drake? Not Israel Drake! Oh, my God!" 

The Constable had stopped in his tracks like a man 
struck paralytic. 

"No, stranger," he quavered. "I reckon I — I — I 
won't go no further with you just now. Here, I'll 
give you the keys. You can use 'em yourself. These 
here's for the doors. This bunch is for the cells. 
Good-night to you. I'll be getting back home!" 

By the first train next morning the Troopers, con- 
veying their prisoner, left the village for the County 
Town. As they deposited Drake in the safe-keep- 
ing of the County Jail and were about to depart, he 
seemed burdened with an impulse to speak, yet said 
nothing. Then, as the three officers were leaving the 
room, he leaned over and touched Merryfield on the 
shoulder. 

" Shake ! " he growled, offering his unwounded hand. 

Merryfield "shook" cheerfully, with his own re- 
maining sound member. 

"I'm plumb sorry to see ye go, and that's a fact," 
growled the outlaw. " Because — well, because you 're 
the only man that ever tried to arrest me." 



VII 

THE COON-HUNTERS 

WHEN "C" Troop delivered Israel Drake into 
the grasp of the District Attorney of Cumber- 
land County, the District Attorney's soul was suf- 
fused with joy. Then, because it was good, he asked 
for more — asked for the body of Carey Morrison. 

In the interval, however, "C" Troop had been so 
besought for help from many other quarters, both 
official and private, that not a single man of the com- 
mand remained free to aid the District Attorney of 
Cumberland. So the Superintendent of State Police 
referred the request to "B " Troop, presiding over the 
next nearest State Police section, with orders that 
two Troopers report at once to departmental head- 
quarters at Harrisburg. 

In accordance with the command, Sergeant Her- 
bert Smith and Private Chalkley N. Booth forthwith 
reported at Harrisburg. Here they received, first, a 
warrant for the arrest of Carey Morrison, wanted 
for arson, burglary, felonious assault, and minor of- 
fenses; second, a pencil sketch roughly showing the 
region in which Morrison was supposed to be lurk- 
ing; and, third, the instruction, bare of all detail, 
to "go get the man." 

Sergeant Smith and Private Booth had talked over 
a possible line of campaign while en route to head- 
quarters. Nothing that they learned there having 



180 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

affected their notion, they now went out, bought 
themselves canvas hunting-suits and borrowed two 
shotguns. Then they took the next train from Harris- 
burg to Mount Holly Springs Junction. At this junc- 
tion they transferred to a goat-path railroad heading 
up into the hills. 

Their destination was a tiny mountain settlement, 
about fifteen miles, as the crow flies, north of Gettys- 
burg. The two Troopers, as the little engine labored 
up the heavy grades, gossiped carelessly with the 
train-hands concerning it. It was a place of about 
ninety inhabitants, they learned — twenty houses; a 
general store and post-office; poor mountain people; 
had a hard life of it, generally. Carey Morrison, one 
of Israel Drake's gang, had worked it over pretty 
thoroughly, with no light hand. Now, since Drake's 
capture by the Troopers, folks did say Carey was 
hiding out, but — better not count on that! 

At the General Store and Post-Office the two of- 
ficers asked where they could find board. They let 
it be understood that they were Philadelphia sports- 
men, friends of Mr. Cameron, owner of much forest 
thereabout, and that they would like to do a little 
hunting by themselves while waiting the arrival of 
their host with the dogs. 

Only one house in the settlement could accommo- 
date boarders, they were told. So they applied and 
were received at that little farm. For a day or two 
they tramped the woods with their guns, stopping 
hither and yon at mountain cabins for a light for 
their pipes, for a drink of water, for a bit of casual 
talk, striving always to pick up news. 



THE COON-HUNTERS 181 

But news of Carey Morrison was very hard to get. 
The entire mountain population was literally afraid 
to mention his name. In this his peculiar haunt he was 
as greatly dreaded as was his leader, Israel Drake, in 
a wider field. Three times he had robbed the store 
and rifled the post-office safe. Twice he had burned 
the mountain-side. He had committed innumerable 
robberies and assaults. Once he had walked up to a 
farmer as he stood in his shed chopping wood, with 
the peremptory demand: — 

"I want five dollars of ye!" 

And when the farmer ventured to demur, Carey, 
snatching the axe out of the man's grasp, chopped off 
his right hand. 

Almost every Constable in the County held a copy 
of the warrant for Carey's arrest, but, small blame to 
them, Carey still went free. Very recently the local 
Constable had "hired out" to a farmer to pick the 
apples in an orchard high on the mountain-side. 
Perhaps the orchard lay too high, too near his own 
eyrie, to please Carey Morrison. At all events, when 
Carey, moving over his domain, espied the village of- 
ficer so engaged, he descended at once to the orchard- 
owner's house. 

Towering in the doorway, shutting out the sunlight 
with the terror of his big and sinewy bulk, he issued 
his edict : — 

"Constable is picking apples up in your orchard. 
Tell him if I ever see him there again I am going to hill 
him" 

The farmer tremblingly obeyed. The Constable 
tremblingly conformed. And no one would willingly 



182 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

pronounce the name of Carey Morrison for fear the 
very shadows might be his messengers. 

Yet through their silence pierced once and again 
some little rays of light. Brought all together these 
showed the general direction and area in which the 
man should be sought. Unfortunately, that area lay 
in a territory obviously bad for hunting, while the 
good game-grounds stared from the opposite quarter. 

The two officers were by no means blind to this flaw 
in their pose, yet for the moment they saw no choice 
but to risk the suspicion that it brought upon their 
heads. 

Meantime, in the boarding-house, the strongly 
developed native curiosity of their host and hostess in- 
creased apace. On the very day of their arrival the 
Troopers had seen the necessity of satisfying it with 
food fit for their ends. Private Booth, therefore, had 
written two decoy letters — one to an imaginary 
friend in Boston, another to a creature of his brain 
elsewhere addressed, dealing with hunting-dogs and 
discussing plans for a trip. These letters he had left 
on his bureau carelessly unsealed; and he had found 
with satisfaction, when next he returned to his room, 
that the two missives had met their intended fate. 

But the soporific did not long suffice, and, to make 
matters vastly worse, it chanced that a series of bur- 
glaries, begun in the region just previous to their ar- 
rival, now continued nightly. The spinster teacher 
of the district school, resident in the house, conceived 
the pestilential idea that the two "hunters" were no 
other than the burglars in disguise. Harping on that 
string, she so imbued the rest of the household with 



THE COON-HUNTERS 183 

her own belief and fear that several persons sat up 
each night to spy upon the possible goings and com- 
ings of the "Philadelphia sportsmen." 

This was hampering enough, but when at last the 
village Constable, he who dared not displease Carey 
Morrison, began stealthily trailing them about in the 
woods, the two officers were more amused than vexed. 

Nevertheless, the diurnal routine of losing the Con- 
stable came soon to be rather a handicap. For now 
the trail was growing warm. The "hunters" had dis- 
covered, in a mountaineer named Cox, a brother-in- 
law of Morrison's. 

Cox, lank and idle, butternut-jeaned, lived high 
among the ledges, far above the settlement, and alone. 
Constitutionally suspicious of all strangers, he, too, 
was prone to curiosity, in the wildwood way of his 
kind. Like wily snarers of a light-winged bird, the 
Troopers at first played for his interest by hunting 
around his perch, without visible remark of his exist- 
ence beyond a passing nod. Next day they drew a 
little nearer. Later, they ventured a word, and so, by 
increasingly rapid degrees, became friends. 

Some odds and ends of dogs were hanging about 
the shack. 

"These look like promising coon-dogs," hazarded 
Private Booth. 

"Good coon-dogs, them be!" rejoined the moun- 
taineer with warmth. 

"If there's anything I do love it's coon-hunting!" 
cried Booth. 

"Good coon-hunting back yonder," vouchsafed 
Butternut-Jeans, with a jerk of the thumb toward 



184 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

the high woods, "but them dogs belong to a brother- 
in-law of mine. They won't work their best for me." 

"I'll give you ten dollars if you'll take us out with 
'em, anyway," Booth pursued, with growing enthu- 
siasm. 

"Nothin' ag'in' that," assented the mountaineer. 
"When d' yer want to go?" 

"Well, let's see — "Booth pondered, looking in- 
terrogatively at Smith. 

"Not before to-morrow night, I reckon. Make it 
to-morrow night," responded Smith, with decision. 

And so, having arranged to meet again at Cox's 
cabin on the following noon, they parted for the day. 

As the two Troopers dropped down the mountain- 
side toward supper and their distrustful house-mates, 
Sergeant Herbert Smith divulged his plan. The de- 
tails of that plan are his secret — the fruit of his own 
wily brain. But his statement to his comrade ended 
thus: — 

"And so, you see, Cox will be called away. He'll 
leave to-morrow afternoon. And we two will manage 
the rest very easily." 

True to their appointment the two reappeared at 
Cox's shack at the hour agreed. The mountaineer sat 
on his doorstep, his hat pushed back on his head, 
whittling a stick without purpose. Plainly, his state 
of mind was mixed. 

"Reckon I can't take you fellers out to-night, after 
all," he remarked, without looking up. 

"Oh, come now!" remonstrated Booth, "what's 
come over you, man?" 

"Got a call to go away for a couple o' days," 



THE COON-HUNTERS 185 

answered the whittler, gruff with embarrassing pride. 
"Business. Got to leave before sundown, sure." 

"Well, now," ejaculated Sergeant Smith, "if that 
is n't the meanest yet! Why, we've got to get back 
home in a couple of days ourselves, and I did want a 
night's coon-hunting the worst way!" 

"I kinder hate to lose that ten dollars, too," re- 
flected Cox. 

"Oh, look here!" protested Smith. "We can't let 
it go like this. Say, if you'll find some one to take 
us out with the dogs to-night we'll give you that ten 
dollars, anyway, and square it with the other man 
besides." 

Cox meditated, brightening. 

"Mebbe I might Gx that," he conceded. "But 
there's only one other man could work them dogs. 
That's my brother-in-law, that owns 'em. And I ain't 
sure he'd do it. You see, you don't know who my 
brother-in-law is, yet. Well, I'll tell ye: He's Carey 
Morrison!" 

Cox paused with patent satisfaction, to watch the 
bomb fall. 

"You don't mean it!" gasped the coon-hunters, 
looking askance over their shoulders as though the 
woods had suddenly rustled with ghosts. 

" Thought it'd scare ye!" chuckled Cox. "But you 
don't need to be scared of him jest now, not so much 
as usual. Fact is, he's hidin' out these days. You 
see, he's done what he pleased in these here moun- 
tains so long that he did n't ever reckon no other 
way. He'd got all the folks trained to give him his 
own will, peaceable. They never interfere with him. 



186 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

But here, the other day, after a little sport that Israel 
Drake had with a couple of old misers, what does the 
District Attorney down to Carlisle do but up and 
hand out a warrant to the State Wild Cats! 

"And I'm damned if them crazy Wild Cats did n't 
go in and nab Israel Drake the very first jump! Him 
that had laughed at the whole County for years and 
years! You most could n't believe it! 

"So now, that's why Carey's a little skeered. He 
does n't mind nobody else on God's green earth, but 
he sure does fear Them that got Israel Drake. 

"Of course, there's a lot of us that's his brothers 
and cousins, kin and kind, 'round on the Mountain, 
that will stand by him till hell freezes shet. But it 
seems like he's got these State's men on his mind. I 
reckon he's hipped about it. They ain't never been 
seen 'round these woods. And none of 'em ain't goin' 
to dare show themselves here, neither. But since they 
got Israel Drake, Carey's like he's plumb locoed. 
He's looking for 'em behind every bush, not knowin' 
what shape they '11 come in. But you fellers wait for 
me here and I '11 go over to Carey's place and ask him. 
Reckon he might like a little money himself, just now, 
to skip away out of this." 

The two Troopers let Cox get out of sight. Then, 
with their trained woodsmen's skill, they trailed him, 
soundless as Indians. As he reached his destination 
— a little barn-like slab shack buried in thick brush 
by the edge of an abandoned slate quarry — they had 
him well in view. 

"Carey!" Cox called within the door, and again in 
a suppressed voice around the place, " Carey ! Carey ! " 



THE COON-HUNTERS 187 

No answer. Cox sought a little further, as though 
his man might be sleeping in the cover of some rock 
or bush. Then he turned, evidently convinced that 
the search was useless. When he regained his own 
cabin the two coon-hunters were lying on their backs 
in the shade of the wall, half asleep, smoking their 
pipes. 

"Well," asked Smith, rearing up on one elbow with 
a yawn. "Did you find him?" 

"He ain't there. But I reckon to find him on my 
way out. I '11 start now, so 's to have time to hunt him 
and I'll send him back here to ye. Will that do?" 

"First-rate," answered Smith heartily. "Where 
shall I leave the money for you, if he comes up?" 

"Oh, leave it in yonder coffee-can, inside on the 
shelf, under the beans. I'll tell Carey about it." And 
the mountaineer, with a good-bye nod, vanished into 
the forest. 

Hours passed, while the pair conscientiously en- 
acted the role of care-free idlers, dozing and loafing 
about the empty cabin. Well aware that the wary 
eyes of the outlaw might be scanning their every 
move from behind some near-by screen of leaves, 
they gave their best thought to the behavior natural 
to coon-hunters under such circumstances, and they 
conducted themselves accordingly to a hair's breadth. 

But though chipmunks, rabbits, and blue jays came 
to gaze upon them with impartial interest, no human 
being appeared — no Carey Morrison. 

"No use," murmured Smith, at last, as twilight 
began to fall. "Either Cox did n't find him, or else 
he's too scary and won't come." 



188 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"My idea," said Booth, "would be to go back to 
the settlement and get a fresh start in the morning." 

That night, as Sergeant Smith blew out his candle, 
he was distinctly aware of an eye withdrawn from his 
keyhole — of a rustle retreating down the hall. 

"If we don't provide some excitement for her soon, 
it will be a cruel and unusual punishment! " he said 
to himself, as he dropped into his first sleep. 

Next dawn as the Troopers sat over their cornbread 
and bacon, their host's face was full of puzzled dis- 
trust. As he left the table he crossed the room and 
took his gun from its nail on the wall. 

"They was another house-breaking on the Moun- 
tain last night," said he casually, examining the lock 
of the weapon. "If we could lay hands on them fellers 
once — " And he looked up sharply at his two stranger 
guests as though he expected to surprise them wearing 
faces of guilt. 

That morning the village Constable, cheerfully un- 
conscious that he was himself observed, kept up his 
forest watch with the tenacity of a dragging bramble, 
so that it cost the Troopers a half-hour of patient 
doubling to lose him effectually. 

"This sort of thing would get to be a nuisance," 
growled Smith, as they finally cast off their pursuer. 
"Now, let's get down to the job." 

Cutting across buttresses and ravines that they had 
come to know as well as they knew the insides of their 
own pockets, they made for the old slate quarry 
smothered in the brush. 

As they neared the spot, they separated, with the 
agreement that Sergeant Smith should come up upon 



THE COON-HUNTERS 189 

the rear of the shack, while Private Booth approached 
from the other direction. 

Gliding noiselessly, Smith had already attained his 
chosen position, — the cover of a stone wall close at 
the back of the cabin, while Booth had advanced to 
within two hundred feet of the front door, — when 
that door opened and a man came out, a big man, 
heavy and tall. His manner was unconcerned and 
free. Clearly, he thought himself alone. 

"Hello, Cox," called Booth. 

No answer, but the man, looking up, instantly 
averted his head. 

The glimpse had been enough. In that full, heavy 
visage, in those black eyes, Booth recognized beyond 
a doubt the description of Carey Morrison. 

"Morrison," he commanded, "throw up your 
hands. You are under arrest." As he spoke, he 
cocked one barrel of his shotgun. 

Morrison, swinging like a flash, drew a heavy re- 
volver — an Army Colt — fired twice, and missed. 
In the same instant Booth fired also. 

Morrison flinched, as though lead had touched him, 
and jumped for the cover of a tree at the side of the 
house. But this move brought him unawares within 
range of Sergeant Smith. And so, as Private Booth, 
standing in the open, coolly waited his chance at a 
shot at Morrison, and as Morrison, behind his tree, 
as coolly debated the deadliest moment for Private 
Booth, Sergeant Herbert Smith, congratulating him- 
self on the unusual ammunition that he had per- 
suaded his duck gun to hold, shot the bandit with 
exact calculation just above the knee. 



190 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Don't shoot! Oh, don't shoot any more. I give 
up ! " implored Morrison, crumpling down in a heap, 
then writhing his full length on the ground. 

Booth was running in, — had almost reached him, 
— when the outlaw, with a snarl, jerked himself to 
his elbow and threw up his gun to fire. 

But before he could drop the hammer something as 
sudden as a thunderbolt happened to that aiming arm, 
and Morrison found himself again sprawling on his 
back, gazing with amazement into the disconcerting 
eyes of Sergeant Herbert Smith. 

"Here!" said the Sergeant reproachfully, "don't 
you know you're under arrest? Now, be still till we 
put a tourniquet on you, or you'll bleed to death." 

As the two officers worked over the body of the 
prostrate man, the pain of the wound, the fear of 
punishment, the dread of prison, so worked upon his 
mind that before them his nerve disappeared utterly. 

"Shoot me! Shoot me now!" he entreated. "Jest 
shoot me through the head and be done with it. I 
can't live in prison. I can't stand this pain. Oh, shoot 
me now! Do! Do!" 

Soon the practised skill of the officers had stopped 
the flow of blood from the wounded leg. So much 
achieved, Trooper Booth started off to find a convey- 
ance, while the Sergeant remained with the prisoner. 
Nothing was more probable than an attempt at 
rescue should Morrison's friends learn of his plight. 
So the Sergeant, after looking to his own weapons, 
reloaded the outlaw's gun and laid that, too, ready at 
hand, while with eye and ear he kept lynx's watch 
upon the encompassing circle of brush. 



THE COON-HUNTERS 191 

Meantime Trooper Booth was cutting down and 
across through the forest, seeking a man with a cart. 
Finally, by happy chance, he found that very phe- 
nomenon. Near a mud-chinked cabin, in a little clear- 
ing, backed up to a pile of freshly dug potatoes, was a 
cart. A horse stood between the shafts, and a big, 
rawboned, thick-whiskered mountaineer was just pre- 
paring to load the crop. 

"How do you do," said the Trooper. 

"Howdy," rejoined the other, civilly enough. 

"I'd like to hire your horse and wagon to go to 
Benders ville. A man has been shot up in the woods. 
We have to take him to the nearest doctor." 

"Well — 't ain't very convenient. I was just get- 
ting ready to load. But if the man is bad hurt, I sup- 
pose you kin have the rig." 

And then, idly, "Who's the man?" 

"Carey Morrison." 

The mountaineer dropped his hands. 

"You can't have this wagon!" he exclaimed 
roughly. 

"Will you get into the wagon and come along 
peaceably?" 

"I tell ye, I won't come at all." 

Booth drew his service Colt's. "Get on that 
wagon," said he. 

The mountaineer did as he was bid. 

Booth guided his gloomy captive back toward the 
quarry. They hitched the horse at the point of road 
nearest the quarry trail. Then they went in, and, all 
three aiding, carried the helpless prisoner out in their 
arms. 



192 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

The mountaineer's bearded visage was a moving 
map of contradictory emotions as he looked from the 
Terror of the Mountain, now so incredibly abject in 
his whimpering defeat, to the two who were so un- 
concernedly bearing him away. 

Carey must have given them a fight; so much was 
sure, no matter how craven he seemed now. And 
yet they were handling him as gently, and yet they 
were as careful to spare him pain, as if he had been 
their comrade and their friend! 

And again, this whining mass of flesh and fear, this 
inconsiderable carcass that could no longer hurt a 
mouse, this was the very being that for years had im- 
posed his bloody will upon the country-side and whom 
all the country-side had obeyed with panic in its heart. 

How had it happened? What could it mean? 

"Stranger," he broke out at last, "askin' your 
pardon, who might ye be?" 

"Officers of the State Police." 

"Them the bad niggers calls State Wild Cats?" he 
ventured further, breathlessly daring. 

"Yes." 

The mountaineer looked to right and left, and be- 
hind, as if to reassure himself of the place, of his au- 
ditors. "Them" — and he whispered as gingerly as 
if the words might burn his lips — "them as got Israel 
Drake?" 

"No," rejoined the Sergeant, "those were com- 
rades of ours, of the State Police. But they did n't 
have time for a little job like this." And with a 
depreciative gesture of the chin he indicated the inert 
figure that they were now loading into the cart. 



THE COON-HUNTERS 193 

With dropped jaw the mountaineer drank in each 
word. 

In the whole Borough of Bendersville there are 
about three hundred and fifty inhabitants. On the 
main street of the town are the doctor's house, the 
"hotel," a few shops, and a few dwellings. Into the 
doctor's door the Troopers now bore Morrison. 

"Will you be so good as to look him over, doctor, 
and give him first aid?" requested the Sergeant. 
"We'll take him to the nearest hospital when you've 
fixed him up for the trip." 

The doctor examined the wounded man with some 
care. "I suppose I might bandage him up fresh," he 
said, as he finished. "But the fact is you boys have 
applied first aid as well as I could myself and — In 
Heaven's name, what's happening outside?" 

The street outside was filled with people — with 
strange, wild-looking men, gaunt-faced, fierce-eyed, 
lean-framed, rifles in hand and revolvers at belt — 
with women as strange, wild-eyed, and fierce. By 
twos and threes, in carts or on horseback, they had 
been descending into the village from the mountain 
roads and trails ever since the advent of Carey Morri- 
son in his captor's hands. By what telegraphy they 
had learned, in their widely scattered eyries, of the 
mischance befallen their kinsman and chief, who shall 
guess? But here they were on the very heels of his 
disaster, pressing hard around the doctor's door. 

Their sympathies lay all with the prisoner — that 
was clear. Loud and louder rose their curses of the un- 
known who had dared to intrude upon their domain. 



194 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Loud and louder rose their threats of attack and res- 
cue, as their numbers grew. And then, with a rumor 
of climax running before it, came a movement down 
the centre of the crowd, a tossing to right and left like 
the tossing of spray by the prow of a ship, as a tall, 
savage woman clove her way through. 

She burst open the door and stood on the thresh- 
hold of the little office. She was hard of feature, 
arrow-eyed, with straight, coarse, true black hair; a 
half-breed Indian. 

"Where is my man?" she demanded, in a terrible 
voice. 

Then her glance fell on the figure collapsed on the 
doctor's lounge. She paused as if fascinated, eyes 
riveted to Carey's white, whimpering face, while her 
magnificent fury slowly faded into a flat contempt. 

"And two strangers could bring you to that!" she 
said as if to herself. She wheeled to leave the room. 
From the doorstep she flung back a barb: — 

"Why, if I'd been there I'd have killed them both 
myself!" 

If Carey Morrison should ever return to the world 
he must seek a new mate. 

But another, who had pressed into the room in the 
wake of the wife, remained to gaze with wonder and 
incredulity upon the prisoner's face. 

"Who done it to ye, Carey?" he burst out at 
last. 

It was as if the tone and words gave the wreck on 
the couch the one spur that could arouse him to 
speech. Slowly he opened his eyes and gazed his in- 
terlocutor full in the face. 



THE COON-HUNTERS 195 

"Cox, it was your coon-hunters done it to me" re- 
torted he, and gasped into silence. 

Angry faces, threatening faces, came thrusting 
over Cox's shoulder. The place was filling up. 

"Doctor," said the Sergeant, "with your permis- 
sion we will clear the office. After that we will clear 
the town." 

"Go ahead," whispered the doctor, "but don't say 
I said so — and good luck to you!" 

Trooper Booth pulled out his watch. "If any of 
you wish to say good-bye to Carey Morrison, say it 
now," said he. "In just two minutes you will have 
vacated this room." 

He stood, watch in hand, while the crowd, lowering 
and muttering, backed into the street. 

Then Sergeant Smith addressed the mob outside. 

" We are officers of the State Police," said he slowly, 
clearly, with exceeding directness, and showing his 
badge. "We have arrested Carey Morrison, in the 
name of the Law. He is wounded because he unlaw- 
fully resisted arrest. We shall now take him away to 
jail. Meantime you will all quietly disperse to your 
own homes. I give you just ten minutes to get out of 
town." 

For a moment the crowd stared at the officer as 
though weighing the echo of his words — testing the 
judgment of its own ears. Then it began to move, to 
split apart. On the outskirts arose the rattle of wheels, 
diminishing — the lessening clatter of hoofs. In ten 
minutes' time the streets were clear. Not one of the 
recent visitors remained. 

How did it happen? Why did they do it? Perhaps 



196 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

they scarcely could have told, themselves. They 
cared not a whit for any law or peace officer within 
their ken — would have thought nothing of taking 
his life — and they had never before seen the State 
Police. 

But — there lay Carey Morrison. And they knew 
the fate of Israel Drake. And this strange man, who 
issued his orders so sternly, whose eyes were terrible, 
like blue lightning, and who knew no fear at all — 
this strange man expected to be obeyed. 

Somehow they dared not hesitate. 

Since that day there has been a saying in those 
mountains — a saying with a sound basis of truth: — 

"When the State Police want a man from here, 
they don't have to fetch him. They send him a post- 
card and he comes in." 

The doctor got out his two-horse wagon to convey 
the wounded outlaw to the hospital at Carlisle. On 
the road, they stopped at the boarding-house for the 
Troopers' effects. Like magic the entire settlement 
assembled to gaze upon its late guests as men with a 
feeling utterly new. 

"Why did n't you say who you were?" 

"So you are State Troopers! I never guessed!" 

"Well, you'll always be welcome in this town! 
That's one sure thing!" 

"I'd like to shake hands with you boys." "Me 
too ! " " And me ! " came the greetings from every side. 

But the school-teacher beamed happiest of all. "7 
knew they were something remarkable all along," 
said she. "Did n't I tell you so?" 



VIII 

THE FARMERS' BATTLE 

13ETER AMES had a kind heart. When the social 
* service worker from Pottsville appeared to him 
late one afternoon, in the midst of silo-filling time, and 
asked for a moment's talk, he threw down his pitch- 
fork, left the team standing, and gave her the half- 
hour he knew she really meant. With resignation, if 
not with gladness, he gave it, and listened to all that 
she had to say. 

She said that Peter's farm was a good one; that his 
father before him had been a sound and sane citizen; 
and had handed down to his son not only fruitful 
acres, but a respected name, a solid place in the com- 
munity. She said the little hamlet that he lived in 
was a happy spot, and that Peter had always been 
blessed in his "environment." And she added that 
Peter's present comfortable condition, however much 
he might grace it, was less his own creation than the 
gift of circumstances with which he had nothing to do. 

To all this Peter Ames assented freely, as to self- 
evident facts. "I know that I have much to be grate- 
ful for," said he. 

"Then," pursued his visitor, "are you willing to 
prove the sincerity of your gratitude by lending a 
helping hand to one of the many who have not en- 
joyed your advantages — who have never had a real 
chance? " 



198 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"How do you mean?" asked Peter. 

"Why," said she, "I have in mind a young man 
named Frank Mitchell. He has been rather wild, but 
it was not his fault. His parentage was unfortunate. 
His father was a drunkard. He had no bringing-up 
really deserving the name. He got into some little 
trouble and was sentenced to a year in the Peniten- 
tiary, but they thought so well of him there that they 
have just liberated him, after eight months. Now, I 
want to find a good home for him, where he will live 
under Christian family influences and develop into 
the fine man he was meant to be. Mr. Ames, will you 
take him into your home as a hired hand?" 

Peter hesitated. "I do need help on the farm, 
but—" 

"Mr. Ames, you say you need help. Think how 
marvellously you have been helped. And this poor 
fellow — who had ever helped him? Dare you re- 
fuse?" 

So Peter consented. 

"I am sure you will never regret it," said the social 
worker, as she hurried away. "And he is such a nice- 
looking young man, too, — only about twenty-four 
years old, nearly six feet tall, strong and wiry, clear 
red cheeks, and so boyish-looking! You'll like him at 
once." 

The next day Frank Mitchell appeared. 

In silo-filling season no farmer has time to con- 
sider aught but the heavy manual labor of the hour. 
After that comes the threshing; then the orchard 
work; then a dozen vital matters that refuse to 
wait for any man's convenience. So September and 



THE FARMERS' BATTLE 199 

October Lurried away, and half of November had al- 
ready followed them before Peter Ames had leisure to 
notice in the newcomer much more than a pair of 
hands. 

During all this period, however, young Mitchell 
had lived in the farmhouse, and had fulfilled his duties 
as well as could be expected of an inexperienced man. 
Because of his youth, and because of the words of the 
social worker, Mrs. Ames had taken a special interest 
in him, as had her mother, Mrs. Bolton, who shared 
her daughter's home. Both women were pleasant, 
kindly, warm-hearted folk, of the type that is meant 
by "the salt of the earth," and both did their whole- 
some best to make the young man feel that no shadow 
of prison bars or of any other sinister thing beclouded 
him in their eyes. 

So came the 16th of November. All the morning 
was showery or lowering. Uncomfortably the two 
men worked between downpours, as best they could. 
After dinner a steady rain began. 

"This is for good," said Peter Ames. "We may as 
well quit. I '11 hitch up and drive over to Orwigsburg 
to do my trading. And you, Frank, you can mend the 
double harness the way I showed you. Take the stuff 
over to the house, where you'll be comfortable. It's 
getting awful raw!" 

Half an hour later Peter drove out of the barnyard 
in his buggy, jogging away down the leafless maple 
alley into the gray of the rain and the mud, while 
Mitchell with his armful of harness started for the 
house. 

Mrs. Ames, comely and motherly, sat in her spot- 



200 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

less kitchen, shelling corn. Pink geraniums bloomed 
in the white-curtained windows, and a pot of "four- 
o'clocks" covered with crimson flowers. Braided rag 
rugs made the floor gay with their checkered rings of 
black and yellow, white and purple and red. The 
doors of the wooden cupboards smiled with painted 
posies, and behind the shiny glass fronts of the dress- 
ers the old blue dishes stood in rows. The tea-kettle 
sang on the clean black stove, and over on the table 
with the lozenged cloth stood a pan of fresh doughnuts, 
and a plate of rosy apples and winter pears. 

Across the threshold, in the sitting-room, Mrs. 
Bolton sat sewing on a patchwork quilt. She rocked 
cheerfully as her fingers dealt with multi-colored 
scraps of calico, and between fragments of talk with 
her daughter she sang bits of hymns in a sweet old 
voice that cracked a little now and again on its high 
notes. Her hair was snowy white, but over her steel- 
bowed spectacles looked out a pair of eyes as blue as 
a girl's and full of gentle goodness. 

Frank Mitchell was crossing the barnyard on his 
way to the house. Mrs. Ames, from her seat by the 
kitchen table, saw his approach. 

"Frank's coming in," she said to the elder woman. 
"I guess Father's told him to bring his work inside. 
Grandma, how do you feel about that boy now? I'm 
real hopeful myself. Seems to me if we treat him like 
our own he can't help being good. This corn is lovely ! 
Just look what a big ear here is!" 

"Well," said Mrs. Bolton, "I don't see why he 
should n't be good. Your father always said a man 
was like his thoughts, and surely that boy has enough 



THE FARMERS' BATTLE 201 

good things to fill his mind with now. There he goes, 
through the woodshed." 

"I'll call him in," said her daughter, and, taking 
her milk-pan under her arm, she opened the outer 
door. 

"Frank!" she called. "Come inside. Bring your 
work into the kitchen. You can sit right here by the 
stove. That's right. Put your things on this other 
chair. There! Now you'll be comfortable, won't you? 
Take a doughnut before you sit down. The rain's 
getting worse, is n't it? I do hope Father '11 get home 
in good time for supper! It's dark so early and the 
roads must be all a muck." 

But Peter Ames could not finish his business at Or- 
wigsburg as soon as he had hoped. When he started 
for home it was already dark. Not until after half 
after six o'clock did he reach the outer end of the 
double row of maples that led to his house. 

"An hour late to supper," thought Peter, "and on 
such a night! The old mare and I won't shy at our 
victuals this time, neither one of us!" 

Then, through the haze of bare branches, he caught 
sight of the house, a blot on the thinner darkness of 
the sky. All the windows were black. 

"No lights! Where can Mother be?" marvelled 
Peter to himself. "Where can Mother be gone, and 
Grandma, too? . . . and a night like this! . . . Must 
have been awful serious, whatever it was, to take 
them out and me not home! . . . Maybe some neigh- 
bor's sick and Frank's had to hitch up and carry 
them over in a hurry. Reckon I'll find a note on the 
kitchen table." 



202 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Peter had driven into the barn, by now, and the 
light of his axle-tree lantern was falling along the old 
brown floor, catching on the cobwebs under the loft- 
beams, showing points and parts of familiar objects 
like hands of old friends reaching out of the dark. 
A speckled hen sleepily complained from her perch 
on a wagon-pole. Up at the far end four brown noses, 
thrust over their mangers, whinnied eagerly at the 
master's approach. 

"Nickering! Then they haven't been watered 
yet!" exclaimed Peter. "Old mare, I won't wait to 
unharness you now. Let me make sure, first, what 
all this means." 

He flung a blanket over the dripping horse, and 
hurried to the house. 

Opening the kitchen door into the thick, black, 
silence of the room, he paused a moment, listening. 
Then he shuffled across, felt for the matches on the 
mantelpiece, lighted the candle that always stood 
ready there, and turned to look about. 

The room was empty. There was no note on the 
table. There was no sign of supper prepared. And 
this last fact in particular filled him with vague fore- 
bodings. Never had his wife forgotten his comfort. 
Never did she withhold her first thought and care 
from the comfort of his house. An unreasoning chill 
crept over him like a fog. 

Something crunched beneath his foot. He stooped, 
holding the candle low to see what that thing had 
been. A grain of corn. Beyond, much corn lay scat- 
tered over the floor, and against the wall stood a milk- 
pan, balanced eccentrically as though it had fallen 



THE FARMERS' BATTLE 203 

and rolled there, with yet a few yellow kernels lying 
in its rim. 

Peter stood up and again looked about him fear-, 
fully. 

"Mother!" he exclaimed, half -unconsciously call- 
ing beneath his breath. 

Then he moved into the sitting-room. Nothing 
unusual there, unless it were the litter of patchwork 
pieces lying over the carpet before the chair that 
Mrs. Bolton was wont to use. 

"But Grandma never leaves things in a muss!" 
he said to himself protestingly, and went on toward 
the hall and the stairs. 

His foot was already on the lowest step when he 
noticed, on the floor, a long, dark stain following the 
channels of the matting in thick and glossy lines. 
Again he held his candle low. The stain led to a black 
thing lying shapeless in the shadow of the newel-post. 
He went to it, laid his hand upon it, fell on his knees 
by its side. 

"Grandma!" he cried. "Who did it to you? Oh, 
Grandma, speak! It is Peter, Peter. Can't you 
hear?" 

But the white head, as he lifted her, fell back, inert. 
The hand that he thrust over her heart found no 
life and when he withdrew it, it was red with blood. 
Clutched in her right hand was a carving-knife. Its 
long steel blade seemed to flash a tale that the dead 
lips could not speak. But as yet Peter Ames missed 
its message. 

Gently he laid her back on the floor. It could not 
hurt her now to wait a few moments longer there. 



204 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Nothing could ever hurt her again. And he must 
know what was above. 

As fast as his fear-stricken body would carry him, 
he mounted the stairs, and made straight for the 
square south chamber, his own room. The room was 
in wild confusion. The drawers of the bureau yawned 
wide, their contents scattered abroad; the wardrobe 
door was swung open, the floor covered with clothes. 
On top of the bed a great feather-bed had been cast 
in a heap, and its striped ticking, billowing awkwardly, 
gave the last touch of madness to an unheard-of scene. 

Peter stood gazing around him in a stupor. His 
world was gone from under his feet. He reeled in 
space. 

"Mother!" he cried, half unwittingly, as he had 
done before. " Mother !" 

Then he fancied he heard a moan. Again it came. 
Peter dashed at the bed, seized the mountainous 
feather-bed and flung it away. There lay his wife, 
unconscious, with a wound on her head. Her arms 
were bound tight to her body by turn on turn of 
leather straps. 

Even in his agony Peter looked again at those 
straps. They were his double harness reins. 

Perhaps an hour elapsed before Peter Ames took 
thought of anything but his own. Then, snatching 
his telephone, he called up the Justice of the Peace. 
And the Justice of the Peace, as quickly as he could 
get the connection, informed the State Police at Potts- 
ville Barracks, fourteen miles away, of what had 
occurred. 




Again he held his Candle low 



THE FARMERS' BATTLE 205 

Now it happened that at that moment the force at 
Potts ville was very small. Captain Adams, then com- 
manding the Troop, was absent on duty. Between sub- 
station details and details on urgent special cases, not a 
single old enlisted man remained in Barracks for field 
service. Lieutenant Mair and First Sergeant McCall 
were making shift to handle the work with the aid of 
a few raw recruits, as best they might. And so, when 
the Justice's message came in, nothing remained for 
it but that the Lieutenant himself should go to the 
scene of the crime. 

With six recruits he presented himself at Peter 
Ames's door as quickly as the distance could be 
covered. Mrs. Ames was still unconscious, but con- 
ditions told their own story, and Peter's theory that 
Frank Mitchell was the author of the havoc in his 
home seemed sound. Securing the best description 
of Mitchell that the distracted farmer could give, and 
determining as closely as possible the hour at which 
the crimes had been done, Lieutenant Mair now set 
out to search the modes of egress from the place. 

From a tower-man down the railroad line he pres- 
ently learned that a youth answering the description 
of Mitchell, and carrying a suitcase, had been seen 
that evening walking the track toward Port Clinton, 
the station next to the south. 

Telephoning the railway agent of Port Clinton, 
Lieutenant Mair found that such a man had bought 
a ticket to Reading and had just taken the train in 
that direction. Instantly, therefore, the Lieutenant 
telephoned the railway police at Reading, requesting 
that they watch the arrival of the train, arrest the 



206 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

man, and hold him prisoner for the coming of a State 
Police officer. 

Then he waited for news of the capture, which 
should be sure. 

Meantime First Sergeant John McCall sat at his 
desk in Pottsville Barracks. First Sergeant McCall 
had honorably served his country in the Fourth United 
States Cavalry. Later, in the Seventh Cavalry, he 
had fought the Indians in the grim Drexel Mission 
affair, and again, in Arizona, among multitudinous 
adventures, he had faced the hostile Apache chiefs. 
As a member of the Sixth United States Infantry, he 
had gone through the business of San Juan Hill from 
start to finish, and after that had done his share in 
many a hot engagement with the insurgents in the 
Philippines. Often had he been wounded in battle. 
Twice he had received honorable mention for saving 
the lives of comrades. But, although he joined the 
Force at its beginning, now years gone by, no one had 
ever heard him speak of these things. In fact, his 
voice was so rarely heard on any topic whatever that 
throughout the Squadron he was known as "Silent 
John." 

And now, by a whim of Fate, it was Silent John 
and no other who perforce must talk all night! 

Silent John sat at the telephone collecting and dis- 
tributing information, methodically centralizing the 
work. And so it was on his ears that fell the familiar 
voice of the Lieutenant, irately lamenting, as the 
clock marked a quarter to ten. 

The Lieutenant spoke from a tower-house, some- 
where down the line. 



THE FARMERS' BATTLE 207 

"He's slipped through the railway police! You 
know the Reading Station — sort of triangle. Three 
platforms. Too much of a puzzle, I suppose. Any- 
way, they missed him. And they say he was n't on 
the train. But I know he was. I know he's in Read- 
ing now. The next thing along is a coal freight. I '11 
get the tower-man to flag it, and go down on that. 
The first passenger train won't pull in there before 
dawn, and he might get away ahead of it." 

"Right, sir," said the First Sergeant. 

Then he went on telephoning, picking up here a 
thread, and there a thread, matching, selecting, cast- 
ing aside. As soon as the Lieutenant should have 
reached Reading he would give him his latest glean- 
ings. Also, in receiving from each man on the job 
prompt reports of all discoveries, he would keep each 
man continually informed of the changing status of 
affairs. Scientifically, methodically, he ordered his 
work, like a chess-player, cool and far-sighted. 

Meantime, by due progress of freight, Lieutenant 
Mair, with his green recruits, was moving on Reading. 
The lads were on tiptoe to do the right thing and to 
do it handsomely, but alas! they had no experience. 
An old Trooper needs merely to be told the general 
object desired. His officer can then entrust the mat- 
ter to his care, knowing that the task will be done 
well and wisely. But the recruit must be guided step 
by step, lest his judgment, betraying him, reflect 
discredit on the Force. So, working in the field with 
recruits is a slow and painful process. 

In the black and splintery depths of the jolting 
freight-car the Lieutenant therefore endeavored to 



208 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

save what time he could. Sitting on a nail-keg, he de- 
livered a practical lecture to the wide-eyed youngsters, 
revealed by high lights only, in the dismal ray of a 
train-hand's lamp. 

"Remember this," "Never do that," and, "In such 
a case do so," he was still adjuring them when the 
train lumbered into the Reading yard. 

"Where in Sam Hill did you come from?" asked 
the officer on duty at the Reading City Police Sta- 
tion, sitting up with a jerk and rubbing his sleepy 
eyes. 

"Just got in from the north." 

"Just got in! What time is it?" He peered at 
the clock. "Half -past twelve. Why, there ain't no 
south-bound train this time o' night. What d' you 
mean?" 

"Came down on a freight." 

"On a freight! Well, I'll be jiggered! What's the 
matter with you fellers, anyway? Ain't passenger 
trains good enough for you?" 

"It happens I want to catch a criminal you've got 
down here," said the Lieutenant, grinning. 

"Oh, shucks!" fumed the other, obscurely irri- 
tated. "Ain't there criminals enough and plenty, to 
hunt in a reasonable, business-like way, as nature in- 
tended, without your rushing around in the middle 
of the night? You put me in mind of a lot of cock- 
roaches, hanged if you don't!" 

But when the Reading police heard in detail from 
the Lieutenant's lips what had happened in the farm- 
house to the north only six hours ago, they aroused to 



THE FARMERS' BATTLE 209 

an interest that they had not felt before. And they 
started out with a will to help the Troopers comb 
the town for the missing man. 

And all this time First Sergeant John McCall sat 
talking, talking, talking over his telephone ! 

Most of the points that he determined were nega- 
tive in nature. Yet, by elimination, they narrowed 
the field. The telephone girls over three counties, all 
eagerness to help, were doing yeoman's service in the 
many ways in their power, by accurate relay work, 
by rapid connecting. Therefore, when Lieutenant 
Mair called up his Barracks, just before starting out 
with the Reading police, First Sergeant McCall had 
a sheaf in hand. 

One possibility he reported as definitely cut off, 
another idea as cancelled, certain important facts 
as established, the physical description of the man 
cleared up and made positive. 

"And, Lieutenant," finished "Silent John," "I 
find that when this Mitchell, alias Christock, did his 
time in the Penitentiary, he had for a cell-mate a 
man named Fogarty." 

"All right, Good-bye." 

Then the Lieutenant started in, with the aid of the 
Reading city force, to search the town. They went 
through the cheap lodging-houses and found nothing. 
They sifted the cheap hotels, with like result. They 
ransacked the saloons, the livery-stables, the dives 
and dens in vain. 

"He 's not in this city," said the Reading men. "He 
never came, or else he's gone on." 

One by one they gave up the hunt — went back 



210 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

to their sleep, until only a single pair remained on 
the search. 

But from this pair presently came happy news:- 

" We have the man." 

Lieutenant Mair hurried to the jail to inspect the 
prisoner. 

"We picked him up in the freight-yard, asleep in 
an empty," said one captor proudly. 

But the Lieutenant shook his head. "I don't be- 
lieve he's Frank Mitchell," said he; "the description 
does n't quite fit." 

"Oh, it fits as near as they ever do," said the city 
officer. "We'll keep this fellow, anyway. And if he 
is n't your man, then, take it from me, your man 
isn't in Reading. Now let's all quit for to-night. 
We've done enough." 

"What is Frank Mitchell wanted for?" ventured 
the white-faced prisoner whom the description too 
nearly fitted. 

"For larceny, murder, and rape," answered the 
Lieutenant laconically, as he went out alone into the 
night. 

He had posted his recruits at certain points that 
must be watched. Those recruits, every one of them, 
must stick to their posts. That left him single-handed 
to find the man whom he still unshakenly believed to 
be in the city of Reading. But, even though single- 
handed, find him he must and would. By what means 
he did not yet know. Only the event was determined: 
He was going to find that man before he slept. 

It was half after three o'clock. Still a little while be- 
fore the earliest risers would be stirring. This was his 



THE FARMERS' BATTLE 211 

precious hour. He lingered a moment in the shadow 
of the jail stoop, inwardly debating his next move. 
It must be the best move, the most sagacious, a win- 
ner. He had no time to make mistakes! Should it 
be thus — or thus? 

And then something that for a long minute had 
been softly speaking to his other mind, cried suddenly 
aloud, "Listen to me!" 

It was the sound of a sharp step, not like other 
steps. It was approaching on the side street, and 
there was that in its firm, crisp ring, through the si- 
lence of the small hours, that bit like bright steel on 
the city's soft background. 

The Lieutenant's inner vision was already shout- 
ing hurrah and swinging its hat. The Lieutenant's 
sage mentality was laboriously waiting to know. The 
Lieutenant's eyes were fixed on the street corner with 
an eagerness that almost hurt. 

The crisp tread reached the corner, — turned in, — 
and Sergeant Edward Hallisey , late Thirteenth United 
States Cavalry, tried old Trooper of the Force, stood 
at salute beneath the jail lamp. 

"How did this happen?" exclaimed the Lieuten- 
ant, out of a glad heart. 

"Sergeant McCall picked me up by telephone and 
sent me in, sir." 

"Well, now I know we'll get that man to-night!" 

They held a brief council together. Hallisey was 
an excellent detective, and the Lieutenant wanted 
the benefit of his mind. So he gave him a resume of 
all that had been done. 

"There's one thing that hasn't been done — we 



212 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

have n't tried the hotels of the better grade. There 
might be a chance there," he concluded. 

"Well," said Hallisey, "on the surface, I'd say 
no. But this fellow stole a fairish bit of money. He 
feels flush. It's been one of his dreams, maybe, to 
blow in cash in a real hotel. I 'd say it 's worth trying." 

So the two started out to make the round of Read- 
ing's resorts of the kind in question. The first place 
visited proved a blank, in so far as the search could 
be carried. The second gave the same result. It was 
impossible, of course, to disturb the guests in their 
rooms — to force a general entry, at such an hour, 
and upon such an occasion. But the night clerks 
themselves, in each instance, were positive that no 
one even remotely conforming to Frank Mitchell's 
description had registered in their books. 

At the third stop, the City Hotel, the proprietor 
himself was on duty. Like the others, he also de- 
clared that no one resembling Mitchell had come to 
his house. But Lieutenant Mair was dissatisfied. 

"This is far too good a place for a laborer to think 
of," said he to Hallisey, "but, as you said, that might 
be exactly the reason for his coming here. And hotel 
men are not all close observers. Maybe this one, for 
instance, could n't accurately describe a single guest 
now in the house." 

He stood looking at the proprietor with knitted 
brows. 

"Let me see your register," he evolved. 

The other whirled the book around. 

"George Devons, Alexander O'Neill, Mrs. John 
Martin and daughter, Follmer, Fogarty, Flanahan, 



THE FARMERS' BATTLE 213 

Stillwell, Baker, Tice, Snell, McCune" — the Lieu- 
tenant ran down the names aloud. "That's all that 
have come in this evening?" 

"And nobody at all like the man you describe, 
either," added the hotel-keeper decidedly. 

But the Lieutenant was back again staring at the 
page. 

"Fogarty," murmured he — "Fogarty — where 
does that name come in? 5 

Then it came back to him — in the voice of First 
Sergeant McCall — "When Mitchell did his time in 
the Penitentiary he had for a cell-mate a man named 
Fogarty." 

Something in the Lieutenant's mind suddenly 
snapped shut. He turned to his Sergeant with an air 
of unaccountable finality. 

"Hallisey," said he, "we've got him." 

And then, to the proprietor, "When did Fogarty 
arrive?" 

"A little after nine o'clock, and registered, and had 
supper, and went out. Then he came in at about 
eleven and went to bed. By the way, he left word to 
be called at four-thirty." 

"I would like to go up and take a look at him." 

"Why, sure. Go ahead. Third floor, room 301." 

The Lieutenant knocked at the door. Not a sound 
within. Again a knock, this time followed by a creak 
of the bed and a scuffling. Waiting for nothing more, 
the two officers put their shoulders to the door — 
burst it open. Their man stood before them. 

He was snatching his overcoat down from its hook, 
with one hand fumbling for the pocket. Hallisey's 



214 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

grip closed over his wrist just as he seized the object 
of his search — his revolver. 

Three hours later, in the jail, Mitchell had made 
his full confession, which he signed before a city 
alderman and seven witnesses. In it he related at 
length his deeds of the afternoon before. With the 
greatest coolness he described how, sitting in the 
pleasant kitchen near the kindly farmer's wife, he 
had suddenly sprung up, thrown over her head the 
long leather reins that he was mending and bound her 
arms tight to her body; how then, because she strug- 
gled, he had struck her on the forehead with his 
heavy harness punch till she lost consciousness; how 
he had lifted the senseless woman in his arms, and was 
starting up the stairs with her, when her old white- 
haired mother came tottering at him with the carv- 
ing-knife in her hand; how he had dropped his burden 
long enough to seize the shotgun that always stood 
on the stairs, and to kill the mother with a charge 
through her heart; how he had then gone on upstairs, 
thrown the woman hastily on her own bed, descended 
again to lock the house, and so, at his leisure, had 
ransacked it for money and valuables; how he had 
then returned to the south chamber, covering his 
victim with the feather-bed from her mother's room, 
lest she regain her senses and scream, and had made 
his exit in the manner known; how in Reading, after 
a good supper at the hotel, he had spent an agreeable 
evening at the movies, and had then gone quietly 
back to bed and that sound sleep from which the 
Troopers aroused him. He had intended rising before 



THE FARMERS' BATTLE 215 

dawn, hiring a motor with some of his loot, and get- 
ting away tracklessly in the dark, before search should 
begin for him. 

As Lieutenant Mair was walking down the jail cor- 
ridor after having seen Mitchell safely behind bolt 
and bar, a timid voice called from one of the deten- 
tion cells. 

"Captain! Please, did you get Frank Mitchell?" 

It was the suspect found asleep in the "empty" 
the night before. 

"Yes," answered the Lieutenant kindly. "We've 
got him. I knew you were n't Mitchell, did n't I? " 

"Oh, praise be to God," cried the prisoner. "I 
never was as wicked as that!" 

Then, snatching at the Lieutenant's sleeve, he be- 
gan pouring out the confession of all the shortcomings 
of his life. His name was Edward Hare. He had been 
something of a thief, both of money and of goods. 
He had robbed his employer. He had committed a 
burglary for whose author the State Police had been 
searching for the last two years. But he had spent 
those two years in Nova Scotia, and was on his way 
home only last night. He had thought himself safe 
in returning after so long an eclipse, and had ex- 
pected to escape the penalty of his wrong-doings. 
But now the black shadow of Mitchell's sins, touch- 
ing him so ominously, so close, had changed his whole 
thought. His only desire was to tell all that he knew 
— to rejoice that he had escaped that awful pit — 
to wipe his slate clean — and gladly to take the 
lesser punishment that he had earned. 

So Edward Hare went to the Reformatory. 



216 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

On November 25th, nine days from the day of his 
crimes, Frank Mitchell, found guilty of larceny, rape, 
and murder in the first degree, was sentenced to be 
hanged. His sentence was duly and promptly exe- 
cuted according to the law. The whole thing was 
done and away so quickly that even the newspapers 
had scarcely time to debate it. Neither room nor oc- 
casion was left for the rehearsal of miserable details 
nor for protracted argument of the case. The public 
mind was spared that poisoning. The public treasury 
was saved from cost. The criminal class received a 
lesson of the type that strikes deepest to its core. 
And the farmer folk of Schuylkill County once more 
with gratitude and thanksgiving acknowledged their 
debt to their best friends. 

Once more the State Police, faithfully working 
while others slept, had fought and won the farmers' 
battle. 



IX 

CHERRY VALLEY 

rpHIS was early in the Force's history — so early 
-*■ that as yet no sub-station of State Police had ever 
been planted in Washington County. 

Captain Pitcher, commanding "A" Troop, was 
now about to place one there, and, in reviewing the 
territory, had selected Burgettstown as the location 
for the new outpost. Burgettstown, close to the Ohio 
line, lies some sixty miles from the Troop's home 
barracks. 

Sergeant Charles Jacobs, late Third United States 
Cavalry, Private Gjertsen, late Corporal of United 
States Marine, and two other Troopers, composed 
the new detail. On sending the men off the Captain 
made them a farewell speech. That speech, for him, 
was a long one, yet every word of it carved its indeli- 
ble mark; just as Captain Pitcher himself, through 
twelve long years of splendid service, has carved 
his indelible mark upon the gratitude of the State of 
Pennsylvania. 

"You men have to make good in that country," 
he said. "You are going to establish a name for the 
Force. Do your full duty. Get what you go for. 
Keep every act above criticism. And never 'start any- 
thing' first." 

Burgettstown is a typical farming community — 
quiet, orderly, prosperous, and as vulnerable as an 
oyster without its shell. The Constable of Burgetts- 



218 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

town was seventy years old, and, although far from 
well-preserved, his quavering strength would yet 
have sufficed for all the home-bred needs of the baili- 
wick. But, as it happened, the real needs of Burgetts- 
town were not home-bred at all. 

There was Cherry Valley, for example, only four 
short miles away. 

Cherry Valley was the central point in a circle of 
mining plants. It possessed their one and only store 
— a Company Store; it had some places of dubious 
amusement. It had also a large and bad negro ele- 
ment, mingled with that sort of white stock that will 
so mix. 

Cherry Valley, by its own proud word, was a 
"tough proposition," and from its toughness ema- 
nated a considerable part of Burgettstown's woes. 
They ranged from chicken-stealing and drunken 
Sunday sprees to the firing of haystacks and barns, 
thefts of crops, and attacks upon women in lonely 
places. And no local means of protection of which 
Burgettstown was endowed operated against them in 
the slightest degree. 

Yet these things had become so much a part of 
Burgettstown's daily life as to be accepted more or 
less like the weather that Providence is pleased to 
send, on a par with the discipline of a world of trav- 
ail and sojourning, to be borne with resignation and 
to be taken as they came. 

Burgettstown, as yet, had no personal knowledge 
of the power and purpose of a State Police, and in so 
far as it substituted surmise for experience, its sur- 
mise ran that the Force must be simply a new-fangled 




YOU MEN HAVE TO MAKE GOOD IN THAT COUNTRY 



CHERRY VALLEY 219 

avenue of graft, a creation of costly, arrogant use- 
lessness. The farmers, therefore, in their farmers' 
scepticism as to all new things, held aloof and looked 
askance. 

So it happened that the first applicant for help to 
approach the sub-station door was a very humble 
one, indeed. It was a poor, harmless old negro, who, 
by some mischance, had incurred the wrath of one 
of the black bullies of the Cherry Valley gang. The 
bully had promised to kill this white-polled ancient 
on sight, and, as he habitually "toted a gun," he was 
likely to carry out his threat at their first meeting. 

"Certainly ain't gwine to be no meetin', if I sees 
him first," the old man declared with conviction, 
"but I cyan't have eyes all round my head at once, 
an' I cyan't rest nights tryin' to keep 'em so. If you 
could help me, Boss, I certainly would be thankful. 
Nobody else won't, not in dis world! I'se begged 'em 
all." 

He had sworn out a warrant for the apprehension 
of his persecutor, and had taken the warrant to the 
Constable, in due and proper course. But the Con- 
stable, honest gray-beard that he was, feigned no abil- 
ity to serve that writ. He knew that the burly black 
rascal would at best snatch it out of his hand and tear 
it up before his face, and that he would be lucky to 
escape merely with ridicule and without bodily in- 
jury. So the Constable had flatly refused the at- 
tempt. The patient old negro had then plodded back 
to the Squire. 

"Dis here writ — please, sah, Constable say he 
won't serve it. What I gwine do next?" 



220 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Don't know. Guess there ain't anything to do 
next," opined the Squire. 

"But, Squire, I'se too afraid! Dat man gwine kill 
me, sure!" 

"Well, then, I guess you'd better move away from 
here. Go some place where he won't find you. That 
would be my idea." 

The suppliant stood for a moment silent, with 
hanging head. Then, with a sigh, he started down the 
path from the Squire's door. Perhaps something in 
the humble dejection of the figure touched the Justice 
slightly. Perhaps he suddenly remembered that this 
man could wield a whitewash brush a little bit better 
than any one else in the Borough, and that in haying- 
time he came in handily. 

"Look here, you!" he shouted down the path. 
"There's those State Police just come to town. I 
don't reckon they'll do anything for you, but it 
could n't hurt to walk over and ask 'em before you 
pack up. Your time ain't worth much, anyhow." 

"Certainly we will serve this warrant," said Ser- 
geant Jacobs, having read the writ. "Why not?" 

The old negro could scarcely credit his ears. "But 
— but Cherry Valley's an awful wicked place, an' 
Cherry Valley fights by de bunch. Razors — -an* 
knives — an' every kind of gun." 

"Now, uncle, don't you fret. Go along home and 
eat your dinner in peace. We'll take care of you. 
Leave Cherry Valley to us." 

The old man stared, while his lips moved. He 
seemed to be repeating the words to himself, savoring 
them one by one. Slowly his heart shone through his 



CHERRY VALLEY 221 

wrinkled mask, translated. Fifty years had rolled 
away. Once more he stood in a world that he knew — 
among "real white folks" at home. He clasped his 
knotted hands while the tears rolled down his cheeks. 

"Oh, Master! Master, dear!" he sobbed and 
laughed together, falling unconsciously upon the 
long-hushed name. "D-don't let them hurt you over 
there. Don't let 'em harm one liT hair of yo' precious 
haid! Dis ole nigger ain't wuth it!" 

"May de Lord forgive me!" he said again, as he 
watched the Sergeant and Private Gjertsen ride out 
of sight, down the Cherry Valley road. "May de 
Lord have mercy on my sinful soul! I certainly did 
think He done called all His old-time peoples home!" 

It was a Saturday afternoon — the afternoon of 
pay-day. The gangs had gathered in Cherry Valley, 
and the weekly trouble was already afoot. Men and 
women had been drinking heavily. Quarrels were pro- 
gressing, ugly combinations had formed. As the two 
Troopers rode down the street, a cloud of hostile 
questions surrounded them. Who were they? Why 
had they come? 

Their uniform was unknown here, their name and 
purpose were almost as strange. But they looked like 
men claiming authority, and Cherry Valley in theory 
denied authority utterly. In the concrete it had never 
seen it — knew it not at all. 

Sergeant Jacobs glanced in at the windows of the 
Company Store, as they passed. The windows were 
filled with lowering faces, among them some that were 
American, and of the better sort. 



222 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Said the Sergeant to Trooper Gjertsen: — 

"I'll wager we haven't a friend in the whole vil- 
lage — Americans, foreigners, negroes, every one of 
them is ready to fight." 

They rode on a few yards farther, coming to a 
house on whose porch a stalwart negro lounged. 

"As we're strangers everywhere, we may as well 
begin here," remarked the Sergeant, dismounting. 

They tied their horses and entered. 

Within the thick squalor of the place some fifteen 
or twenty negroes were playing poker and drinking. 
To the query of the Sergeant they answered, with 
surly scowls, that the man he sought was not in that 
house. 

Satisfying themselves that this was probably true, 
the Troopers proceeded to another and yet other 
negro abodes, still with a like result. Everywhere the 
same surly quasi-insolence, the same hostile with- 
holding of all information, suggestions, or help. 

Finally they approached a house at whose front 
door a slatternly white woman sat, while a little 
mulatto girl stood on the back porch. In some vague 
way the two suggested a guard. 

"We'll try this place," said Sergeant Jacobs. "I'll 
take the front door, Gjertsen. You go to the rear." 

Both officers asked the seeming sentries whether 
the negro named in the warrant was within the house. 
Both received a defiant "No!" Then they entered, 
from their respective sides, and together made a 
thorough search of the ground floor. The search 
proved barren. The Troopers mounted to the second 
and only remaining floor. Here also their hunt re- 



CHERRY VALLEY 223 

vealed nothing. Disappointed, they descended the 
stairs, and were about leaving the house, when an 
indefinable shade on the face of the white woman 
made them pause. 

"Are you quite sure that this man is not in the 
house?" 

"Sure? Of course I'm sure!" the woman snapped 
back. 

The Sergeant looked her square in the eye, long and 
steadily. "I'll just go up and have another glance — " 
he began. 

"Can't you take a lady's word, then, you coward, 
you — " and she babbled off, like a hot geyser, into a 
torrent of mud. 

" — and I'll bring him down with me in a mo- 
ment," finished the Sergeant, imperturbably, his foot 
on the stair. 

"There's just this one place left, and he must be 
in it," Sergeant Jacobs was saying, a moment later. 

He stood before the chimney breast in the rear 
chamber, gazing at the chimney-hole. In point of 
size that hole might conceivably have admitted the 
body of a man. But it was stuffed tight with old 
blankets and gunny-sacks, to keep the wind away, 
and the blankets and gunny-sacks were gray with a 
season's dust. 

"If he's in there, they've done it well!" exclaimed 
Gjertsen. 

They had, indeed, done it with talent. Fine white 
coal-ash, scattered over the hastily arranged cloths 
and then fanned off to avoid unnatural surplus, sug- 
gested an inference that might easily deceive. But 



224 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

when the two officers had jerked the last obstructing 
gunny-sack out of that chimney-hole the view that 
rewarded them comprised one large splay-foot. 

They got him down, sooty and perspiring, and 
very wroth. They searched him for arms and found 
that he had turned his gun and razor over to the 
woman before making his ascent. At first he was 
confused, but as he breathed less creosote he grew 
more threatening and bold. 

"We'll handcuff this man," said the Sergeant. 

As the irons clicked fast the woman burst out again 
into railings. "Tin soldiers!" she screamed, and 
launched into her malodorous vocabulary. 

Meantime a mob of no mean dimensions had as- 
sembled around the house. It numbered several hun- 
dred persons, chiefly negroes and foreign miners, with 
the negroes everywhere well to the fore. Sergeant 
Jacobs, with a practised glance, estimated its temper 
and its probable trend of thought. Much, as he well 
knew, depended on the justice of that quick estimate. 
His object was, first, to get his prisoner out of Cherry 
Valley and over to the Burgettstown Jail without 
harm to the man; and, second, but not less, to avoid 
any outbreak and consequent birth of ill-feeling, on 
the part of the crowd itself. 

"Got to make good in that country," Captain 
Pitcher had said. " You are going to establish a name 
for the Force." 

And back in the first days, when all the Force were 
recruits together, had not the Major himself im- 
pressed upon his Troopers, one and all, — 



CHERRY VALLEY 225 

"In making an arrest you may use no force beyond 
the minimum necessary." 

That crowd, then, must not be allowed to conceive 
ideas that would necessitate strong measures. 

"They will centre at first on the horses," the Ser- 
geant theorized to himself. "I'll amuse them with 
the horses while Gjertsen gets ahead with the man." 

"Gjertsen," he said, "remain dismounted and 
start away with the prisoner. I'll follow you." 

Sergeant Jacobs killed as much time as he could in 
untying the two mounts. The crowd looked on in- 
tent, sullen, and muttering. At last one in the front 
rank shouted: — 

"What are you taking this man away for?" 

"Why do you ask?" responded the officer. 

"I got a right to know. He lives here. I demand to 
know." 

The speaker was a blue-black giant with a mouth 
like a collapsible megaphone. His manner was trucu- 
lent. 

"If you want to find out," coolly replied the Ser- 
geant, "come down to the Squire's office by and by. 
Then you can hear all about it." 

The murmurs of the negroes swelled, bordered on 
abuse. The Sergeant faced around. 

"I am an officer of the State Police," said he, very 
sharply and distinctly. "Remember that you are 
permitted to show no disrespect and to use no bad 
language concerning the uniform of the State of 
Pennsylvania, which I wear." 

As yet they guessed but dimly of what he spoke. 
The meaning had still to be proved to them. But 



226 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

something in his bearing gave them pause, never- 
theless. 

With all their lawless ill-will, with all their old im- 
punity, with all their swarming numbers, they hesi- 
tated and held back in the presence of this one 
stranger. In the crowd there were a hundred young 
men of far more than the Sergeant's weight, men of 
ox-like strength, bred to blood and violence. A sher- 
iff's posse, however well armed, would have been their 
half-holiday joy. But this solitary figure now con- 
fronting them diffused some unknown influence — 
was as strange as if it had descended from Mars. 
The uniform, color of a thundercloud, severe as if 
cast in steel, suggesting a Power somewhere unseen; 
the body that moulded the uniform, lithe, clean- 
muscled, hard, suggesting an iron discipline that itself 
is power; the face, clear-cut, lean, quick, with dark, 
live eyes, faithfully promising surprise to whoever 
should go too far — all these contributed their parts. 
The crowd held back. 

Meantime Sergeant Jacobs, watching the progress 
of his comrade, saw him safely turn the corner of the 
street. In a moment more he would be passing the 
Coal Company's Store. "There," thought the Ser- 
geant, "we shall certainly get backing. The Superin- 
tendent will come out with his men." 

Leading the horses, and at a deliberate pace, not 
to excite the mob, he moved on to rejoin Gjertsen. 

They passed the Company Store. It was crowded 
with the very people on whom officers of the State 
should have been able to count for stanch support. 
But not a man of them came forth. Instead, they 



CHERRY VALLEY 227 

hung in the windows and doors, with jeers on their 
faces, voicing grotesque solicitude as to the fate of 
"tin soldiers" in Cherry Valley — betting on the 
number of pieces into which they would be dissected 
before the hour was done. 

The two officers paid no heed — kept straight on 
their homeward course. The manacled negro walked 
before them. The crowd, bunched dark and swollen 
like swarming bees, hung buzzing where the Sergeant 
had left it. 

"I guess we're all right now," said Gjertsen. 

"We'll mount in a moment," the Sergeant agreed. 

But at this the prisoner, who had so far submitted, 
sullenly dumb, aroused himself to dispute his fate. 

"I ain't goin' to walk to Burgettstown," he an- 
nounced. "If you want me to go to Burgettstown, 
you got to take me in a rig." 

"Keep right along going. We can't get any con- 
veyance here. A four-mile walk won't hurt anybody," 
answered the Sergeant good-naturedly. 

The fellow slouched on for a few yards, obedient, 
though glowering. But he had caught his cue. His 
aim now was to communicate it to his timorous 
friends behind. 

"By Moses, I ain't — goin' — on!" he bellowed, 
and stopped short in his tracks. 

"Go on," said the Sergeant. 

The prisoner obeyed once more. But he had gained 
time, and time was all that was needed for his policy 
to take effect. This also the Troopers appreciated. 

Another rod or two, and then the black played his 
trump card. He flung himself flat on the ground. "I 



228 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

won't walk no fo' miles for nobody!" he howled. "I 
won't walk no fo' miles for nobody on earth! Yah! 
Yah! Yah!" 

Trooper Gjertsen jerked him upright. It was not 
too easily done, for the fellow made himself a dead, 
disjointed, flaccid mass. Yet done it was, and quickly, 
for such a job. Meantime Sergeant Jacobs held the 
horses, and kept a corner of his eyes on the crowd. 

The crowd was moving at last. The big, blue- 
black spokesman, leading it, was coming on at a dead 
run. By the posture of his hand, the Sergeant thought 
that he was holding concealed a revolver. Therefore, 
interposing himself between Private Gjertsen with his 
captive and the oncoming giant, and holding the 
horses with his left arm as a man holds a shield, he 
awaited the moment. It came. He saw that the ne- 
gro's hands were empty — and that he was making 
for the prisoner first. 

"Here," shouted the new arrival, at the top of his 
bull-like lungs, "you don't have to go with these men! 
They don't have no authority here! They can't take 
you, I say!" 

From the rapidly nearing crowd rose an inarticulate 
howl of applause. 

Sergeant Jacobs, enveloped in calm, proceeded like 
a methodical nurse with an infant lunatic. Without 
difficulty or seeming exertion, he encircled the big 
negro with his grip, pinning the two flapping arms 
tight to the body. 

He had dropped the horses. Apache, he knew, 
would stand alone, like the friend and the brother 
that he is, in the hour of need. 



CHERRY VALLEY 229 

"Take the cuff off that other fellow's right hand, 
Gjertsen. Snap it on this one's left. So! There's a 
pair of love-birds for you! Now, you two, you are not 
going to start a riot. March!" 

The thing was done so quickly, so unexpectedly, 
that it had the effect of a stroke of fate. The big, bold 
leader, the dare-devil spokesman, had been plucked 
like a wayside weed. In an instant it was over. 
Shame sat upon him. His place of glory could know 
him no more. 

Where the leader had fallen so desperately, would 
the crew rush in and dare? It parleyed. It hesitated. 

But the two burly blacks were not yet subdued. 
"We'll have our rights!" bellowed the giant, a sea- 
lawyer ashore. "You're obliged to give us transpor- 
tation!" 

"Transpo'tation! Transpo'tation ! " howled the 
other. " We want transpo'tation ! " 

" You can't compel us to walk ! It 's against the law ! '* 

Said Sergeant Jacobs, "You'll walk or be dragged." 

Then each Trooper pulled his hitching-strap from 
his saddle, each fastened a strap to a negro's unman- 
acled wrist, and mounted. 

"Start up!" ordered the Sergeant. 

The blacks came to their feet with sprawling haste. 
Handcuffed together like Siamese twins and with their 
free hands lariated by a taut line, they had no choice. 

"Well, — I guess we'll walk," growled one. 

"Until you're done guessing and are quite sure of 
it, you'll walk as you are," the Sergeant replied. 

They plunged on for a few yards, between the two 
horses. 



230 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Please, sir, won't you kindly allow us to walk in 
front of the horses in the natural way, if you please, 
sir!" It was the big spokesman, this time, his inso- 
lence suddenly gone. 

As Gjertsen unfastened the straps, the Sergeant 
looked back. The crowd, so shortly before on the 
ragged verge of an outbreak that would have put 
enmity between the people and the Force in that 
Valley for years to come, that crowd of hostile hun- 
dreds was melting away. No more fight was left in it. 
It was thinking. It was going home. It was almost 
won to a laugh. 

"I believe the Major would like that," Sergeant 
Jacobs murmured, his eyes on the peaceful perspec- 
tive. 

"I think the Captain would say it's a right start," 
Gjertsen elaborated. "But there were moments — " 

"There were," the Sergeant concurred. 

The march ended at the Squire's office door. 

"Now, what about the other man?" asked the 
Justice, having disposed of the subject of the first 
arrest. 

"In his case," responded the Sergeant, "we ask for 
a considerable penalty. These are our first arrests in 
Washington County, and we intend to be fair, square, 
and not too severe. But this man tried his best to 
cause a riot in resistance to the execution of the Law. 
We do not intend to encourage such enterprise." 

"I'll give him four months," said the Squire. 

Later, the prisoner begged that he might speak to 
Sergeant Jacobs alone. 



CHERRY VALLEY 231 

"Cap'n," said he, "Squire's given me four months. 
But before I go away, I want to explain to you that I 
did n't know you was a State Police officer. Did n't 
know what a State Police officer is. I came up from 
Virginny, I did. I thought you was just like all the 
militia down there — just tin soldiers that nobody 
don't mind. An', Cap'n, I want to ask your pardon 
before I go away, because, when I get out, Cherry 
Valley ain't no place for me unless you know I 'm your 
man." 

"Marse Sergeant Jacobs' man, indeed!" snorted 
old Uncle White- Wool when he heard the tale. He 
had already attached himself, body, soul, and lonely 
heart, to his new hero, and had endowed him with all 
the attributes of long ago. "Marse Sergeant Jacobs 
don't have no use f o' dot common new trash ! I 'se de 
onlies' nigger he tolerate 'bout his pusson. My name 
is Jacobs, sah, if you please. I'se changed it to suit 
de occasion." 

Such was the introduction of the State Police to 
Washington County; and the sub-station details, one 
after another over a long period, followed a good 
start. But at last came a day when the "economy" 
of the State Legislature so operated that Burgetts- 
town sub-station must be withdrawn for lack of funds 
to sustain its Spartan cost; and then was afforded a 
gauge of the real feeling of the farmers toward the 
Force. That thinly populated region sent in a peti- 
tion signed by nearly four thousand persons, urgently 
protesting against the withdrawal of the devoted 
friends and protectors, without whose presence they 
scarcely now knew how to live. 



X 

THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP "A" 

THE Burgess leaned on his office table, chin in 
palm, scowling. With his free fingers he beat a 
devil's tattoo on the hard wood over which his waist- 
coat buttons should have presided. But the Burgess 
wore no waistcoat. His costume, in fact, was in the 
extreme sketchy, and his hair suggested the thought 
that the pillow, rather than the brush, had been its 
latest companion. The Burgess radiated an atmos- 
phere of doubt, wrath, and extreme anxiety. It was 
five minutes to four o'clock in the morning. 

By the table stood the Borough Chief of Police, 
large, serious, with an air of weight and importance. 
At his side waited one of his officers, a small man in 
the uniform of the Borough service. Over in a corner, 
among the shadows, sat one seemingly on the eve of 
old age, with a face like the face of an ancient hound 
— long of line, drooping, full of a sort of hopeless 
yearning and of habitual sadness. He sat on the edge 
of his chair. His hands, between his knees, worked 
nervously at the brim of his hat, and his eyes never 
left the Burgess. His dress, neat and clean, had once 
been good; now it would soon be shabby. He was 
obviously under stress of strong excitement. 

On the table lay four objects: A much crumpled 
newspaper; an electric flash-lamp; a red bandanna 
handkerchief; and a bomb, lying within a piece of 
common manila wrapping-paper. 

The Burgess, the Chief, and the Constable stared 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 233 

at the four objects. The man in the corner stared at 
the Burgess. No one spoke. No one had spoken for 
some moments past. Nothing broke the silence but 
the steady beat of the devil's tattoo. 

"Damn it all!" the Burgess broke out at last. 

The Chief's eyebrows flickered up for the fraction 
of an instant, as instantly to resume their natural 
level. The Chief was a discreet man and one who 
could make allowances. 

"You say," — the Burgess spoke again, — "that 
nothing in this stuff here gives any clue." He jerked 
his chin toward the objects on the table. 

"Why, no, not quite that," the Chief rejoined. 
"I said that bomb, that flash-light, and that ban- 
danna have nothing individual about them. But the 
newspaper is a little different. It's in Greek. Only, 
there are hundreds of Greeks around here — hundreds 
and hundreds of them. So I don't see how even the 
paper gives us much of a start." 

The Burgess rubbed an impatient hand through his 
already rampant forelock. "We can't fall down on 
this. It's too serious. It would reflect the worst way 
on our administration. Of course you hunted every- 
where you could think of ? " 

"We made a complete search," the Chief stated for 
the fourth time within the hour, yet still with un- 
ruffled patience, — "a complete and thorough search 
cf the entire neighborhood, before reporting to you, 
sir. And it gave no result whatever except what you 
see before you." 

"Damn it all!" the Burgess once more permitted 
himself. 



234 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Again silence settled on the room — silence so deep 
as to make audible a clicking sound when the man in 
the shadowy corners parted his lips to moisten them. 

It was the little Constable who spoke next. 

"I suppose you gentlemen know," he ventured 
deprecatingly, "that Captain Adams is over in the 
city. Came up yesterday, on special duty." 

"What!" his two superiors jerked out together. 

"You don't mean Adams of the State Police? " the 
Burgess ejaculated, hope and the fear of hope too 
sanguine mingling in his voice. 

"Not Lynn G., Captain of 'A' Troop?" the Chief 
was exclaiming in the same breath. 

"Yes, sir — Yes, I do — Yes, it is — That's the 
man," the Constable did his best to answer. 

"Burgess," said the Chief of Police impressively, 
"people that ought to know call Lynn Adams the best 
detective in the State. And if you ask him, and if he 
possibly can do it, he '11 help us out." 

"7/ 1 '11 ask him ! " the Burgess scoffed. "The only 
question is, Can he spare us the time for it? He's not 
in the city for nothing — he 's got work on hand. Here 
— where can I call him?" 

The Burgess was lunging after his desk telephone. 

The little Constable named the place. "At least, I 
think that's likeliest," he added, carefully. "You 
know they do move pretty quick and unexpected — 
the State Police do — and when their business is fin- 
ished they're off somewhere else on the tick. That's 
where he was, last evening." 

But the Burgess was already talking over the 
wire. "... Mighty glad you're in the neighborhood. 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 235 

We're in trouble over here. Bomb affair. We can't 
make head or tail of it. I surely would appreciate it 
if you could spare time to come over and advise us. 
I'll have a car at your door in ten minutes. ... All 
right. Good! Thank you, Captain ! " 

The Burgess, as he hung up the receiver, swung 
around with almost a smile on his face. "Says he'll 
come!" he reported. 

"That's the talk!" the Chief rejoined. 

Half an hour later the rush of an engine, the slam 
of a car door, and a springy foot on the steps pro- 
claimed an arrival. The Burgess, himself going out 
to admit his visitor, in a moment returned escorting 
him. 

The newcomer was a man about thirty-five years 
old, tall, soldierly in the true American type, and 
with that about him, in face and bearing, that would 
command men's attention anywhere. 

"Have a seat, Captain," the Burgess was saying. 
"Gosh! but I'm pleased to see you! We've been 
worried to death, here, — the Chief and I, — and it 
was like a godsend hearing you were in the vicinity. 
Now, Chief, you start in and tell the Captain all you 
know." 

The Burgess flung himself back in his chair to listen 
at ease. The anxious frown on his face had changed to 
a look of keen and hopeful expectation. The little 
Constable beamed mildly triumphant. The man in 
the shadows rubbed his hands together with a dry 
rasping. 

"Well," the Chief began, "it was this way: A lit- 
tle after midnight — say quarter to twenty-five min- 



236 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

utes after — this gentleman over yonder in the corner 

— Oh! Meet Mr. Hill, Captain Adams, I don't be- 
lieve the Burgess introduced you. Well, this Mr. 
Hill here, he came to my house and rang the door- 
bell and asked to see me. I ran right down, of course, 
and this is the report he gave: — 

"He'd been kept at his store — he deals in plumb- 
ers' supplies, Mr. Hill does — he'd been kept at his 
store very late, figuring on accounts. And it was a 
little before midnight that he started to walk home. 
When he came to pass Mr. Burr's residence — A. C. 
Burr, you know, the big manufacturer — he hap- 
pened to notice somebody sneaking along through the 
bushes inside Mr. Burr's fence. He thought that 
did n't seem right, so he just slid quietly in through 
the gate to have a look. And in a minute, there in 
the shrubbery on the lawn, he came face to face with 
a man. The man had a bundle in his hand. And 
Mr. Hill thinks he was a Greek. 

"'What are you doing here?' says Mr. Hill. 

"'None of your damn business,' says the man, and 
he drops his parcel on the ground and he pulls out his 
gun. 

"But Mr. Hill, here, as the Greek threw up the 
gun, jumped and grappled with him. The man fired, 
and the bullet went straight through Mr. Hill's hat. 
Then Mr. Hill grabbed the gun; only, in the tussle, 
he missed the barrel and caught the muzzle itself fair 
in the palm of his hand — and the Greek fired again. 

— Mr. Hill showed me where the bullet went. — Yes, 
sir, it passed clean between the joints, drilling a hole 
between the bones and the leaders. Very lucky you 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 237 

were, too, Mr. Hill, to have done such a reckless thing 
and to have got off so easy. Mighty plucky of you 
— and A. C. surely ought to appreciate it. But at 
your age — really ! 

"Well, so with that Mr. Hill falls down — shock, 
you know. But in a minute or two he recovered him- 
self, and when he looked around, he saw the Greek 
was gone away. Then, like a wise man, he comes as 
fast as he can straight over to me, and wakes me up 
and tells the story. 

"So, of course, I hurried to A. C.'s at once, taking 
the Constable, here, along with me. By that time, 
very naturally, Mr. Hill was pretty well done up, so 
I left him at Dr. Hill's, his cousin, next door to me, 
to get his hand fixed and to rest. 

"Constable and I hunted all over Mr. Burr's 
premises and the entire surroundings. All we found is 
what you see before you on the table. That bomb was 
wrapped up in that newspaper. The other things were 
lying around close to it. They were on Mr. Burr's 
lawn, just near the house. No doubt at all, the Greek 
meant to wreck the house, and would have succeeded 
only for Mr. Hill's nick-of-time interference. Of 
course, after he'd fired his gun twice, and made noise 
enough to rouse the neighborhood, he did n't dare 
stay to finish his work! 

"Now, Mr. Hill — that's straight, is n't it? Is n't 
that your experience?" 

"Perfectly correct, Chief," answered the man in 
the corner. "Correct in every detail." 

"Well, and then Constable and I went around to 
Dr. Hill's office again, and got Mr. Hill and brought 



238 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

him here to the Burgess. And I call it a pretty tough 
proposition, and a proposition without much handle 
to it," the Chief added emphatically. 

"Mr. Burr," he went on, "employs hundreds of 
Greeks. And one is just as likely as another to have 
this pretty idea to bomb the house. As to the gun, 
they 've all got 'em — brought 'em back when they 
returned after the Greek war. So you could n't hope 
to identify him by that. The flash-light and the ban- 
danna are just like thousands of others — and any 
Greek might have that piece of newspaper. I confess 
I don't see where to begin in the case. But A. C. and 
the public ain't going to see our difficulty. They'll 
be yelling for arrests." 

During the Chief's recital the Captain had walked 
over to the table, and, one by one, had examined the 
exhibits in the close rays of the lamp. The bomb, for 
a moment, seemed to interest him specially, as he 
revolved it under the bright light; then the flash- 
lamp and the newspaper. 

At last he looked up with a smile. 

"Do you think you can help us?" the Burgess 
asked anxiously. "Will you help us?" 

"Perhaps I can. Anyway, I'll try," the Captain of 
Troop "A" replied. 

"Have you got the time for it, though?" 

"Well, other work brought me to the city, but I 
think I can make the time that this will require." 

The Chief and the Burgess breathed sighs of re- 
lief. The little Constable felt himself growing tall. 

"But now," the Captain added, "suppose you let 
me have these things for the time being. I'll take 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 239 

them back to the city with me. And you all go get 
a little sleep. I 'm sure Mr. Hill especially needs it. 
He must be pretty well worn out after such a night." 

The man in the corner looked up gratefully. 

"I do feel a little tired, I'll admit," said he. 

"Is that hat the one that you had on when you 
went into Mr. Burr's garden? " 

"The same one." 

"May I see it?" 

The man in the corner came forward to the table 
and offered his hat, a soft felt. But the Captain made 
no move to take it. 

"Just hold it under the light," said he, "and show 
us where the bullet struck." 

Stooping under the lamp, his thin, carefully brushed 
white hair shining above his tired old face, the hero 
of the night's adventure pointed out the holes that 
his would-be murderer's lead had drilled. Even the 
powder-smudge showed within — proving the close- 
ness of the conflict. He seemed so frail a creature to 
have thrown himself into a desperate battle, alone, in 
the dark, and upon an occasion so easily avoided ! 

And yet there remained a look about him that ex- 
plained it all — a look of the eternal child-heart, full 
of dreams and faiths and longings too slight of tissue 
to endure the bitter light of noon — full of generous 
impulse, of unreasoning courage, of hope beyond all 
mortal power to quench. This shabby, sad old man 
would be capable of an act of risk and romance to the 
very end of his days. Even now he was subtly suf- 
fused with a sort of exaltation, born of his bold de- 
fiance of facts, weakness, and death. 



240 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

An hour later, in his room in the city, the Captain 
of "A" Troop, skilful-fingered, was dissecting the 
bomb, while Sergeant Moore of his command watched 
the work with quiet appreciation. 

"Six sticks of dynamite — a fuse — a detonating 
cap," the Captain enumerated, ranging the articles 
on the desk before him,. "And a very amateur job 
it is — eh, Sergeant?" 

Sergeant Moore gave his little trick cough. "Yes, 
sir — h'm-m — most amateurish!" 

"Look how this fuse is cut! That was done by a 
person who never handled dynamite before. And 
here again — is n't it a wonder how these fellows over- 
step themselves! — here again is another clue. Look, 
Moore! Not a trade-mark on one of these six sticks. 
Now, you know that almost all of the dynamite 
manufacturers put their brands on everything — 
the Duponts an ellipse, the Atlas Company an Atlas, 
and so on. But this chap was careful to get the stuff 
without a mark. And his very precaution simpli- 
fies our job. There is relatively so little anonymous 
dynamite. 

"And, Moore, see this little stain on the shell of the 
thing. What is it?" 

"H'm-m! Blood, sir — a drop of blood." 

"Certainly. When I first saw it in the Burgess's 
office it was even clearer. Now let 's have that bit of 
brown paper. Look in the corner, Sergeant. What 
do you see?" 

"A little — h'm-m — problem in arithmetic, sir. 
Set down neatly with a very fine pencil. Evidently 
the deduction from some kind of change." 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 241 

"Yes?" the Captain suggested. 

"And the amount deducted would be about the 
price to-day of six sticks of dynamite, and this fuse, 
and—" 

"And a few extra detonating caps?" the Captain 
offered. 

"H'm-m! Quite so," agreed Sergeant Moore. 

"So now, as soon as the shops open, we can hunt 
for a place where they sell non-trade-marked dyna- 
mite, and where some one has recently bought this 
approximate amount of stuff, and paid cash for it. 
My belief is that the clerk who sold the things and 
who made this calculation in these smart little fig- 
ures, here, will remember his customer pretty well. 

"Moore," the Captain ran on, "it was a most prov- 
idential thing that this Mr. Hill should have turned 
up by the Burr garden at that time of night, was n't 
it! From what I learned he was a long way off his 
normal line of travel between his home and the place 
where he spent his evening. It was providential, 
was n't it?" 

"Most assuredly." 

"But, Moore, he did n't show judgment in going in, 
himself, after the skulker in the bushes, did he? At 
his age one would think that caution and common 
sense, both, would have sent him after a policeman." 

"H'm-m — the blood-spot — " 

"Exactly," said the Captain. "Now we're just in 
time to get a shave and breakfast before the shops 
open their doors." 

A little inquiry among the city's dealers revealed 
the fact that the Atlas Company made a special type 



242 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

of dynamite — a grade inferior to its standard — on 
which it did not set its trade-mark. Immediately the 
Captain proceeded to the store of the Atlas agent. 

"Do your people make a grade of dynamite on 
which they put no brand?" he asked of the pro- 
prietor, introducing himself officially. 

"Yes, sir." 

"Do you handle it here?" 

"We do." 

"Do you recognize these as an Atlas product?" 
The Captain laid his six sticks on the dealer's desk. 

"Certainly. That is our own make. And, more- 
over, I am the only merchant in the city who deals 
in it." 

"I would like, then, to see all your salesmen of 
that department." 

"Which," said the dealer, "will not be difficult. 
I have only two who handle dynamite." 

He pressed the call-button on his desk. 

"Send in Mr. Blake," he directed the boy who an- 
swered the call. 

In a moment the door of the private office again 
opened and a young man stood on the threshold. 

"Come in, Mr. Blake. Now, Captain, ask what- 
ever you like and Mr. Blake will answer to the best 
of his power." 

"Thank you," said the Captain. "Mr. Blake, will 
you look at the figures pencilled on this piece of paper 
and tell me if you made them?" 

The clerk, taking the crumpled sheet of brown 
manila from the officer's hand, held it close to his 
near-sighted eyes. 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 243 

"Why, no. They ain't mine. But they are Bill's. 
There 's Bill's mark." And he pointed to a tiny scratch 
below the calculation. 

"Thank you, Mr. Blake. I would like to see Bill." 

Bill, a dry, methodical-looking youth with a bright 

green necktie and ashen hair, came alacritously, 

more than willing to take a taste of whatever news 

was afoot. 

"Sure, those are my figures," said he, "and there's 
my mark. See? I put that on everything." 

"Can you recall what transaction they represent?" 
"Yes. I remember all about it. There was a man 
come in yesterday afternoon and got six sticks of 
dynamite — he wanted the second grade — and this 
many caps, and this worth of fuse. And here" — 
as he talked Bill eagerly pointed with his well-sharp- 
ened pencil — "here is the denomination of the bill 
he give me to pay for the lot. And here 's the addition, 
the subtraction, and the change. See? And the man, 
he took the stuff — I wrapped it all up in this here 
brown paper that I done the figuring on — and he 
went away." 

"Did you know the man?" 
"Never saw him before, Captain." 
"Can you remember how he looked?" 
"Just as well as if he stood here. I never forget 
people's looks." 

"Let's have his description, then." 

Bill, nothing loath to prove his boast, launched into 

a careful portrait of his customer. As he finished, the 

Captain looked at his watch. He had just time to catch 

the next train, picking up Sergeant Moore on his way. 



244 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

As the two men detrained at their destination the 
clock in the tower of the Borough Hall struck eleven. 

"I shan't need over five minutes with him, proba- 
bly. Follow me slowly, Sergeant," the Captain said, 
as he started away in his long stride. In another five 
minutes he stood in the little office of a plumber's 
supply shop, face to face with Mr. Hill. 

"I've just dropped in for a moment," he was say- 
ing, "knowing how much you would be interested in 
the progress of the bomb case. I have a very hot clue, 
very." 

"Have you, indeed! I congratulate you. That is 
quick work, sir." 

The old man withdrew his thin, heavily veined 
hand from the edge of his desk. It was trembling 
noticeably. 

"I knew you would be keen to hear, of course, — 
after your remarkable share in the affair. And by the 
way, Mr. Hill," — the Captain's manner was ab- 
solutely simple and courteous, — "may I ask you a 
few minor questions? Did you ever handle dyna- 
mite?" 

"No. I have never used it at all." 

"Do you know anything about dynamite?" 

"Nothing." 

"No. The reason I ask you is that I want to call 
your attention to the fact that the detonator should 
be set so — here — and not so." The Captain was 
sketching rapid diagrams on the back of an envelope. 
"Just take your lead-pencil, open the stick so — run 
it down so — then close the dynamite around the 
fuse — and then it will be sure to go off. The other 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 245 

way is quite uncertain. Well, I must be getting along. 
This is a busy day. Good-morning, Mr. Hill." 

The Captain, stepping out into the shop, closed the 
office door behind him; then, in a moment, he opened 
it again. The old man still stood as he had risen to 
say good-bye. His face was ashen. 

"Mr. Hill, I want to reassure you absolutely. I 
am going to get the fellow that planted the bomb on 
the lawn, just as certainly as you and I are standing 
here. The evidence now in my possession will bring 
him, as sure as you live. I don't care who did it, I 
shall have him before ten o'clock to-night. Good- 
bye again." 

The next errand of the Captain of "A" Troop 
took him to the office of Dr. Hill, where, in a friendly 
talk, he learned the essential details of Mr. Hill's 
history. Thence he proceeded to the Burgess. 

"Burgess," said he to that astonished official, "I 
now know who planted the bomb last night on Mr. 
Burr's lawn. I want you to come down to Mr. Burr's 
office just as soon as you and he can arrange a meet- 
ing there. I will produce the man." 

"Let me call A. C. I'll bet he won't delay the 
game as far as he's concerned!" exclaimed the Bur- 
gess, red with excitement. "By George, this sounds 
good to me! . . . Mr. Burr's office? Tell Mr. Burr 
the Burgess wants to speak to him. ... Oh — 
Mr. Burr! We think we have the man. I want to 
see you at your office as soon as possible. We '11 pro- 
duce him. When? One o'clock? All right, we'll be 
there." 

The Burgess swung away from the telephone, ela- 



246 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

tion in his face. "By George!" he exclaimed again. 
"I would n't have believed such luck possible." 

Then, as he finished the phrase, something about it 
seemed to dissatisfy him. He took off his desk-glasses 
to look the Captain the more clearly in the eyes. 

"Maybe," he ventured, "there's no such thing as 
luck. Don't know as I believe there is. Anyway, 
we've just got time for a bite of lunch. Come along 
with me." 

"Thank you," said the Captain — "but first per- 
haps you 'd better call up Dr. Hill. He must be pres- 
ent at the conference." 

"All right," agreed the Burgess, and proceeded to 
insure the arrangement. 

On their way out Captain Adams conveyed his 
order to the Sergeant: "Bring your man to Mr. 
Burr's office at quarter after one." 

At one o'clock the great manufacturer whose home 
had been so direfully menaced only thirteen hours 
before, the Burgess, the doctor, and the Captain of 
State Police, met in the private office of the first. It 
was a luxurious office. Heavy rugs, leather lounging- 
chairs, and a big mirror on the wall, flanked by heads 
of game, gave it the air of a comfortable little room 
in a club. 

"Gentlemen," said the Captain, as they all settled 
down to the business that had brought them together, 
"I have to tell you simply that the person who placed 
the bomb on Mr. Burr's lawn is the man who first 
reported its presence there — Mr. Hill." 

The doctor was out of his chair in a flash. "What? 
Impossible! Outrageous! I won't listen to this!" 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 247 

"Wait, doctor, wait!" the magnate suppressed his 
guest. "The Captain must state his case." 

The Captain rehearsed the original narrative re- 
lated by Mr. Hill. "In this, gentlemen, I ask you to 
observe," he went on, "first, that Mr. Hill, an elderly 
man of regular habits, leaving his shop shortly before 
midnight to return to his home, was taking a strangely 
circuitous route when he went by way of Mr. Burr's 
street. Second, his conduct in following a supposed 
suspicious character into Mr. Burr's garden was as 
unusual as unwise. Third, according to Mr. Hill's 
statement, the first shot of his assailant, aimed at his 
head, passed straight through his hat. Now, he ex- 
hibited that hat to me at the Burgess's house this 
morning. It is a soft, low hat. There are two bullet 
holes through it. The powder-mark remains on the 
inside. But Mr. Hill's hair and scalp were not in the 
slightest degree scorched. Fourth, Mr. Hill's statement 
leaves no room for him to have touched the bomb 
after he was shot in the hand. But the bomb, when 
I saw it in the Burgess's office, had a spot of fresh 
blood upon it." 

The Captain then narrated his gleanings as to the 
purchases in the Atlas agency, concluding: — 

"I will now produce Mr. Hill. Doctor, of you I 
must ask that you keep absolutely quiet. Mr. Hill, 
I believe, will confess. Mr. Burr, Mr. Hill is now in 
your outer office, in charge of one of my men. I will 
have him brought in." 

"Oh, I'll keep still," said the doctor, "but I tell 
you my cousin no more did this thing than you did 
it yourself. It's monstrous — inconceivable!" 



248 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

The door opened. Sergeant Moore stood on the 
threshold, followed by Hill. The Sergeant, in bring- 
ing him hither, had represented himself merely as a 
messenger, not as an officer of the State. The old man, 
therefore, had no realization whatever of being under 
constraint. His manner was one of suppressed excite- 
ment, and a sort of child's expectancy lighted his 
patient, melancholy face. His eyes rested eagerly on 
Mr. Burr. The Captain spoke first. 

"Well, Mr. Hill, I have the man." 

"Have you?" he looked quickly around the room. 

"I have him beyond escape. Do you know, that 
rascal actually imagined I was going to go all over the 
country looking for a Greek, because his bomb was 
wrapped in a Greek newspaper. Fancy that!" 

"I thought he was a Greek." 

"He was not a Greek, he was not an Italian. 
Would you like to see who he was?" 

"Yes." 

Gently the Captain took him by the arm and led 
him before the big mirror. "Do you recognize him?" 

With a moaning cry the old man covered his face 
with his hands. 

"You put that dynamite on the lawn," the officer 
pursued, in the same firm, even tone. 

Hill steadied himself, leaning against a table, grop- 
ing pitifully for strength to speak. 

"I have been thinking," he stammered at last, 
with quivering lips, — "I have been thinking it over. 
I want to tell you my trouble — I — I don't know 
that I need annoy all these gentlemen here — perhaps 
I could talk to you alone, Captain?" 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 249 

"I desire to hear this thing through," the magnate 
interposed, and his voice was hard. 

The old man shrank as though from a blow in the 
face. 

"Sit down, Mr. Hill," said the Captain of State 
Police, and led him to a chair. 

"Ten years ago," he began, in a husky voice, "I 
was employed by a large ice company in a responsible 
position. One day it happened that I walked into one 
of our storage houses just in time to see the end of a 
fight. Two Greek laborers had been bitterly quarrel- 
ling. They had gone into that ice-house to fight it out 
in secret. One stabbed the other, killing him. And, 
just as the blow fell, I opened the door. There was no 
one else there — no other witness. When the murderer 
saw me, he sprang for me and pulled me inside. 

"'If you ever dare to tell, I will swear I saw you 
kill him ! ' he said, and he shook his bloody knife. 

" Now, it chanced by my great misfortune that I 
had had a dispute with the man that lay dead. Every 
one knew that. And I thought that if I were accused 
of his murder, it would be believed against me. I was 
afraid. So from that time I have been in the Greek's 
power. He has made me do everything." 

"What has he made you do?" Captain Adams 
asked quietly. 

"He has made me give him money. He has driven 
me from one job to another. Finally, last night, he 
came to me in my store and said I must go with him. 
He led me to Mr. Burr's place, telling me nothing. 
When we got there, he took me in, through the 
shrubs, and gave me the bomb to place. 



250 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"I was forced to obey him. The Greek would have 
killed me if I refused. I was afraid that even if I pro- 
tested he would turn around and kill me right there. 
But when we actually got to the point, I thought of 
Mr. Burr and his house and his family, and I just 
could not do it. 

"We had a fight, right there on the lawn — and 
after he shot me he ran away. Then I ran to the 
police, hoping they would catch him. But I did not 
dare to tell about the Greek himself, because I knew 
that if I told, and they did n't catch him, but only 
raised a vain hue and cry, he would certainly know 
and take his revenge on me." 

The old man stopped, exhausted, his breath coming 
heavily. He was clasping his hands so tight that the 
knuckles shone yellow through the stretched skin. 

"Mr. Hill," said the Captain gravely, "you missed 
your calling. You should have written books. Now 1 
will tell you a story: — 

"Your business has not been going any too well of 
late. You have not been making any too much 
money. You have been worried. One day, as you 
were passing Mr. Burr's residence, this came into 
your mind: — 

"'If I could get a steady job, employed in Mr. 
Burr's plant, I should be pretty well fixed for the rest 
of my life.' 

"You did n't know how to get the job, and your 
imagination again said to you: — 

" 'Now, if I saw a man trying to blow up this house, 
— if I saw anybody doing that, — I would just grap- 
ple with him and stop him, and that would gain Mr. 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 251 

Burr's gratitude. Then, if I asked for it, Mr. Burr 
would probably give me a position, and I would be 
out of fear of need forever after — I would be safe.' 

"Wishing that somebody, by happy chance, would 
give you the opportunity, you walked on, slowly, past 
the house. But nobody appeared. Nobody tried to 
blow the place up. 

"Next you thought: 'Why can't I stage something 
like that?' 

"The more you dwelt on the idea, the more feasible 
it seemed. Finally, you actually went to the city, to 
the Atlas Company's agency, and bought six sticks 
of dynamite, three primers, three fuses. That was 
yesterday. Then, last evening, you made up the 
bomb. 

"For the rest, you held your hat before you while 
you fired a revolver shot through it. And next, you 
carefully placed your revolver against the palm of 
your hand where a shot would cripple you least, and 
fired through the fleshy part. 

"Then you told your story, hoping to get a job out 
of it. Is n't that right?" 

The old man's head was hanging on his breast. All 
the life seemed gone out of his whole body. 

"Yes," he murmured, "y es -" 

"Sergeant," said the Captain, "you will take Mr. 
Hill back to the outer office." 

Trembling like one sick of a palsy, the old man let 
himself be led from the room. 

As the door closed after him, the doctor broke 
silence first. 

"And he my cousin! I never would have believed 



252 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

it! But you" — he was confronting the Captain now 
— "where did you get all that stuff? Not from me. 
I only told you he had lost money and that his busi- 
ness was poor — and that he was weak about his 
wife, that's all." 

"And the rest," said the Captain, "is written in 
his face." 

The magnate sat speechless, while something about 
him proclaimed that the conference was at an end. 

"Wait a moment, Captain, can you?" He laid a 
detaining hand on the soldier's arm as the others 
took their leave. "I'd like another word with you 
before you go." 

As the door closed, he drew a chair close to his 
own. 

"Sit down again," said he. "Do you know, it 
makes me fairly sick to think how nearly that old 
villain's scheme succeeded. Just this very morning, 
my wife and I were planning what we'd do for him. 
And a good, easy, permanent job was part of it, if 
you'll believe it. Ah-h!" And he gave a shiver of 
disgust. 

"But now, Captain, I want him to get the maxi- 
mum punishment that the law provides. We '11 make 
an example of him if there's any common sense in the 
Courts of Pennsylvania. This kind of thing can't be 
handled with gloves, I tell you!" — and he struck a 
savage blow upon the desk at his side. "Now, then, 
what's the law?" 

"Mr. Burr," the Captain replied, "I don't in the 
least wonder at your feeling as you do. But I will ask 
your attention to certain aspects of the case. First, 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 253 

very curiously, the worst that you can prosecute him 
for is transporting dynamite on a railroad track. He 
meant no crime. He never intended putting dyna- 
mite in your house. No injury was ever meant to 
you or yours. 

"But aside from that I want to tell you a little 
about the man — more than it was necessary to make 
him endure. He is at heart as innocent as a child. He 
has a considerable degree of breeding and education, 
and in his earlier years possessed ability and com- 
fortable means. But he was always a dreamer. Little 
by little his money filtered away. He never saw 
things except in the clouds, floating to castles in 
Spain. He could never compete with harder-headed 
men. 

"Now, all that he had is gone. His present business 
is a mere shell. He has a wife — the wife of his youth, 
grown old, in frail health, not long to live. He is as 
devoted to her as a lover, and has strained every 
nerve to give her the little comforts that make her 
life. He could never persuade himself to let her into 
the open secret of his slow descent into poverty. He 
thought it would break his heart to have her find it 
out. 

"But now came the time when the wolf was actu- 
ally clawing at the door. He had tried every expedi- 
ent, every resource, every avenue to paying work 
within his ken. No use. Nobody with money to pay 
for labor, even the simplest, wanted him. He was 
too weak, too slow, too old. He had not the smallest 
value anywhere — not the smallest place. He could 
not keep the truth from her much longer. Soon she 



254 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

must see that he could not even buy her shelter and 
bread. 

"So, being a dreamer, — a man of eternal hopes 
and faith, — he dreamed once more, and with a brain 
almost unhinged by sorrow. And you have already 
heard the rest. 

"No, Mr. Burr, you can prosecute if you like, and 
punish him as far as the law will go. But I would 
rather see you take another course." 

"What do you want me to do?" growled the 
magnate. 

"Why, if I were you" — the Captain smiled whim- 
sically at the thought — "if I were you — it seems 
to me that this is what I'd do: I would send that 
heart-broken, nerve-shattered, harmless old man to 
some good sanitarium until such time as he shall have 
regained his normal balance — for it is more than 
tottering now. I'd be guided by conditions as they 
should develop, in the next step regarding him. And, 
meantime, I would set his mind completely at rest 
as to his wife. 

"And Yd never let a single soul know one word con- 
cerning any of it. 9 ' 

The speaker stopped, watching the magnate with 
sombre eyes. The magnate frowningly stared at his 
finger-nails — at the floor. At last he looked up. 

"Confound it all, I suppose you're right," he 
barked. "Might as well get some satisfaction out of 
such an ungodly mess!" 

As the Captain stepped into the street, the Burgess 
joined him. 

"Been hanging around like a dude at the stage- 



THE CAPTAIN OF TROOP A 255 

door," he grinned shame-facedly. "What's going to 
be done?" 

"There'll be no prosecution — nor any news." 
"You don't mean it! Well, I am glad! Mighty de- 
cent of A. C, I must say. And, great Heavens! 
Think what it will mean to Dr. Hill and all the con- 
nection! A family of that position!" 

"'A family — of that — position,'" the Captain 
of "A" Troop repeated slowly. "Well, I confess I'd 
only been thinking of the poor old man." 



XI 

ACCORDING TO CODE 

FIRST SERGEANT STOUT, of "A" Troop, be- 
comes his name like any hero of English ballad. 
First Sergeant Stout is towering tall, and broad and 
sinewy in proportion. There is not a meagre thing 
about him, from his heart and his smile to the grip 
of his hand, whether in strangle-hold or in greeting. 
Just as he stands, he might have roamed the woods 
with Robin Hood, or fought on the field of Crecy in 
the morning of the world. 

But First Sergeant Stout has one peculiarity that, 
in the morning of the world, could never have marked 
him. Sometimes, when he turns his head to right or to 
left, his head sticks fast that way until he takes it 
between his two hands and lifts it back again; and 
the reason is that he carries a bullet close to his spinal 
cord, lodged between the first and second vertebrae. 

Once upon a time Sergeant Stout had charge of a 
sub-station in the town of Unionville, County Fay- 
ette. And among those days came a night when, at 
exactly a quarter after ten o'clock, the sub-station 
telephone rang determinedly. 

Nothing of the novel distinguished the incident, 
since that sub-station telephone was always deter- 
minedly ringing, day and night, to the tune of 
somebody's troubles. But this time the thing was 
vicariously expressed; or, you might call it, feebly 
conglomerate. 



ACCORDING TO CODE 257 

The Constable of the village of Republic held 
the wire. He complained that one Charles Erhart, 
drunken and violent, had beaten his wife, had driven 
her and their children out of doors, and was now en- 
trenched in the house with the black flag flying. 

"She's given me a warrant to arrest the man, but 
I can't do it," moaned the Constable. "He'll shoot 
me if I try. So I thought some of you fellers might 
like to come over and tackle him." 

The Sergeant looked at his watch. "The trolley 
leaves in fifteen minutes," said he: "I'll be up on 
that." 

The trolley left Unionville at half after ten, reach- 
ing Republic, the end of the line, just one hour later. 

"Last run for the night," the motorman remarked 
as they sighted the terminus. 

"I know. And I've only about half an hour's busi- 
ness to do here. Then I'd like to get back. Do you 
think you could wait?" 

"Sure," said motorman and conductor together. 
"Glad to do it for you, Sergeant." 

Hovering in the middle of the road, at the " 's- 
far-'s-we-go" point, hung the Constable — a little 
man, nervous and deprecatory. Religious pedagogy 
would have been more in his line than the enforce- 
ment of law. Now he was depressed by a threatened 
lumbago, and by the abnormal hours that his duty 
was inflicting upon him. Also he was worried by the 
present disturbance in his bailiwick, and therefore 
sincerely relieved to see an officer of State Police. 

"He's a bad one, that Charlie Erhart, at the best 
of times. And when he 's drunk he 's awful. I could n't 



258 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

pretend to handle him — it would n't be safe. Like's 
not he'd hurt me. But you," — as if struck by a new 
thought the Constable suddenly stopped in his tracks 
to turn and stare at the Sergeant, — "Why, you — 
why, I thought you'd bring a squad!" 

"To arrest one man?" the Sergeant inquired 
gravely. "Well, you see we're rather busy just now, 
so we have to spread ourselves out." 

They were walking rapidly through the midnight 
streets, turning corners, here and again, into darker 
and narrower quarters. The ring of their steps stood 
out upon the silence with a lone and chiselled clarity, 
as though all the rest of the world had fled to the 
moon. Yet, to the Constable's twittering mind, that 
very silence teemed with a horrible imminence. The 
blackness in each succeeding alley seemed coiled to 
leap at him. He dared neither to face it nor to leave 
it at his back. 

His gait began to slacken, to falter. At last he 
stopped. 

"I guess I'll leave you here." He flung out the 
words in a heap, as if to smother his scruples. "You 
just go on down the street, then take the second turn 
to the left, and the house is on the far side, third from 
the corner. You can't miss it. And my lumbago's 
coming on so fast I guess I '11 have to get home to bed. 
Glad you came, anyway. Good-night to you." 

"Wait a moment!" said the Sergeant. "If you are 
not coming along, I want to see the woman before I 
go farther." 

The Constable indicated the tenement house in 
which the fugitive family had taken refuge. Then, 



ACCORDING TO CODE 259 

like a rabbit afraid of being caught by its long ears, 
he whisked around and vanished into the dark. 

Mrs. Erhart, nursing a swollen eye and a cut cheek, 
clutching a wailing baby in her arms and with a clus- 
ter of half-clad, half-starved, wholly frightened and 
miserable children shivering around her, narrated her 
tale without reserve. The single little lamp in the 
room, by its wretched light, showed her battered face 
in tragic planes. Her voice was hoarse, hard, monot- 
onous. She had no more hopes, no more illusion, no 
more shame. 

" He has tried to kill us all — me and the children — 
often. He does n't get helpless drunk. He gets mad 
drunk. Some day he will kill us, I guess. There's 
naught to prevent him. Do I want him arrested? 
Yes, sir, I do that! He's tried to take our lives this 
very night. And he's keeping us out of all the home 
we've got — all the home we've got. 

"But" — and she looked up with a sudden strange 
flicker of feeling akin to pride — "I reckon he'll kill 
you if you try to touch him, big as you are. He sure 
will! Erhart 's a terror, he is! And to-day he's cut 
loose for a fact." 

Armed now with indisputable grounds for entering 
the house, Sergeant Stout went ahead with his errand. 
The place, when he found it, proved to have a nar- 
row passageway running from the street to its back 
door. Sergeant Stout, taking the passageway, walked 
quietly around to the back door and knocked. 

"Who's there?" 

"State Police." 

"You don't get in!" 



260 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

The voice was loose, flat, blaring — a foolish, vio- 
lent voice. 

The Sergeant set his shoulder against the door. It 
groaned, creaked, splintered, gave way, opening di- 
rectly into the kitchen. Confusion filled the place. 
Broken furniture, smashed dishes, messes of scat- 
tered food, made in the smudgy lamp's dim light a 
scene to be grasped at a glance. 

But there was no time to look about. Directly at 
hand, half-crouching, lurching sidewise for the spring 
of attack, lowered a big, evil-visaged hulk of a man. 
His eyes were red, inflamed with rage and drink, his 
breath came in gusts, like the breath of an angry bull. 

"You would, would you! You — bloody — Cos- 
sack ! 1 9 ll learn you to interfere with the rights of an 
honest laboring man in his home!" 

He held his right hand behind him as he spoke. 
Now he jerked it forward, with its gun. 

With a jump the Sergeant grabbed him, wrenched 
the revolver out of his grip, and, though the other 
struggled with all his brute strength, forced him 
steadily down to the floor. Then, with practised 
touch, he made search for further weapons, and was 
already locking the handcuffs on the wrists of the 
prostrate prisoner when a voice from beyond made 
him raise his head. 

Opposite the back entrance, on the other side of 
the kitchen, an open doorway framed the blackness 
of the front room. That doorway had been empty. 
But now, around its casement, and to the left as the 
Sergeant faced it, projected a long, dully gleaming 
bar — the barrel of a rifle, while behind, faint against 



ACCORDING TO CODE 261 

the night within, showed the left hand and the left 
eye of the gunman. 

"You!" he had called, having already brought his 
rifle to bear. 

And the Sergeant, stooping above his fallen assail- 
ant, had looked up in quick attention. 

The gunman had wanted a better mark — a full 
front face to fire at. He had it now — so he blazed 
away. The bullet struck fair between the Trooper's 
eyes, tearing through to the spine. 

But because he had chanced to receive it in that 
very position, stooping and looking up with his head 
half-raised, the charge had spared the chamber of 
the brain, passing along its lower wall. The shock, 
nevertheless, was terrific. 

Sergeant Stout, rightly named, never wavered. In- 
stantaneously, in his first perception of the threat 
beyond, he had drawn his service Colt. And even 
as the other's bullet burst through his head he had 
sprung erect and fired at the gleam of that one visible 
eye beyond the door. Now, sliding over to the wall on 
the right, and so gaining a farther view into the room, 
he covered his adversary with his revolver. 

The gunman was in the very motion of firing again 
— and the Trooper's Colt would have anticipated 
the shot — when suddenly the rifle barrel wavered 
and dropped as its holder sank forward across the 
threshold. 

Still covering him, the Sergeant walked over and 
looked at the man. He had fainted — or was feigning 
it. The Sergeant, kneeling beside him, saw that he 
was bleeding from the head. That snap revolver shot 



262 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

had gone true, striking just above the eye and glanc- 
ing around to the back of the skull. But the soldier's 
trained touch told him that the wound was slight. 
Even on the instant the fallen man opened his eyes 
— began to stir. In another minute he would be all 
alive again. 

The Sergeant stood up. In the cool, impersonal 
way made second nature by the training of the Force, 
he rapidly weighed the situation. Here was he, Ser- 
geant Stout, of the Pennsylvania State Police, at mid- 
night, alone, in the back room of an obscure dwelling 
in a mean place. He had in his possession two pris- 
oners — one handcuffed and cowed, the other for the 
moment safe by reason of a rapidly passing daze. 

If this were all, the situation would be of an ex- 
treme simplicity. His second prisoner revived, he 
would march them both to the waiting trolley and 
take them back to Union ville Jail. 

But this was not quite all : He, Sergeant Stout, had 
been shot through the head. His head seemed to be 
growing bigger, bigger. Blood was pouring down his 
throat in a steady stream. It would make him sick 
if he stopped to think of it — and his head was grow- 
ing bigger — curiously bigger. 

Presumably, like other persons shot through the 
head, he would presently die. If he died before he 
handed these men over into safe-keeping, that would 
be a pity, because they would get away. 

Further, if he could not maintain sufficient grip on 
himself to handle prisoner number two, prisoner num- 
ber two, beyond any doubt, would shortly shoot 
again. As long, however, as he did keep that grip 



ACCORDING TO CODE 263 

on himself, just so long prisoner number two was a 
"prisoner under control." 

And prisoners under control, by the code of the 
Force, must be protected by their captors. 

Obviously, then, there was just one course for 
Sergeant Stout to pursue: Since he must, beyond 
question, complete these arrests, and since he must 
not permit his second captive to make the move that 
would justify disabling him, he must hang on to his 
own life and wavering senses long enough to march 
the two men to that trolley-car. 

It had to be done — though his head was growing 
bigger — bigger — (surely it must be spreading the 
skull apart!) and the thick, choking blood was pour- 
ing down his throat. 

He kicked the rifle away from the threshold, out of 
the left-handed gunman's reach. The gunman was 
moving now — consciousness fully returned. The 
Sergeant, motioning with the point of his Colt, 
brought him up standing. Then, with another gesture 
of his revolver too simple to be misunderstood, he in- 
dicated to the two the door to the street. 

It must have seemed to them like taking orders from 
a spectre — from one of those awful beings through 
whose charmed substance bullets pass without effect. 

They looked at him aslant, fearfully. This Presence 
had been shot through its brain, — there was the 
mark, — yet it gave no sign of human vulnerability. 
It was not good — not natural ! 

For the last hour, they had been amusing them- 
selves, this well-met pair, by firing at a mark on the 
inner kitchen wall. Their bullets had been strik- 



264 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

ing through into the dwelling next door, arousing a 
spicy echo of womens' screams. With relish they had 
awaited some attempt at restraint. But they had 
not expected just this ! • 

Scarcely daring to meet each other's eyes, they 
filed out of the door, into the yard, into the street. 
But they did not guess how the Trooper's head was 
sailing. 

"I've got to make it!" said the Sergeant to him- 
self, clenching his teeth. And he would not think how 
many blocks it was to "'s-far-'s-we-go." 

"One block at a time '11 do it," he told himself. 
One block at a time, he was steering them rapidly 
along — when, upon his unsteady hearing broke the 
sound of footsteps, approaching on the run. 

"Another thug to their rescue, maybe!" thought 
the Sergeant — and the idea pulled him together 
with a jerk. 

As the footsteps rang close, he held himself braced 
for an onset. They neared the corner ahead. His Colt 
waited ready. But the flying figure, rounding under 
the street-lamp, showed, blessed be Heaven! the uni- 
form of the Pennsylvania State Police. 

Trooper Lithgow, returning to the sub-station 
from detached duty, and passing through the town 
of Republic, had learned from the waiting trolley- 
men of his Sergeant's presence, with some hint of the 
errand that had brought him there. Thinking that 
help might not be amiss, he had started out to join 
his officer, and was hastening along the way when the 
sound of the two shots, distinct on the midnight si- 
lence, had turned his stride to a run. 



ACCORDING TO CODE 265 

Together they walked to the trolley, herding the 
prisoners before them. Together they rode to Union- 
ville, with the prisoners between them. From time to 
time the two trolley-men looked at Sergeant Stout, 
with the bleeding hole between his eyes, then looked 
at each other, and said nothing. 

More rarely, Trooper Lithgow looked at Sergeant 
Stout, then at the trolley-men, but said nothing.- A 
proud man he was that night. But he did not want 
those trolley-men to know it. He wanted them to see 
and to understand for all time that this thing was a 
matter of course — that you can't down an officer of 
the Pennsylvania State Police on duty. 

They got their two prisoners jailed. Then they 
walked over to the hospital (the last lift of the way 
up the hospital hill, Lithgow lent a steadying arm) 
— and there, in the doctor's presence, Sergeant Stout 
gently collapsed. 

"I'm glad you came, Lithgow. But you see — I 
could have fetched it ! " he said, with the makings of a 
grin, just before he went over. 

There were four days when he might have died. 
Then his own nature laid hold on him and lifted him 
back again into the world of sunshine. 

"It's one of those super-cures effected by pure 
optimism. The man expected to get well," the sur- 
geon said. 

But they dared not cut for the bullet. It lay too 
close to the spinal cord. And so First Sergeant Stout, 
when his head gets stuck fast, has yet to take it in his 
two hands and shift it free again. Still, with a head 
as steady as that, what does it matter? 



XII 

JOHN G. 

IT was nine o'clock of a wild night in December. 
For forty-eight hours it had been raining, raining, 
raining, after a heavy fall of snow. Still the torrents 
descended, lashed by a screaming wind, and the song 
of rushing water mingled with the cry of the gale. 
Each steep street of the hill-town of Greensburg lay 
inches deep under a tearing flood. The cold was as 
great as cold may be while rain is falling. A night to 
give thanks for shelter overhead, and to hug the 
hearth with gratitude. 

First Sergeant Price, at his desk in the Barracks 
office, was honorably grinding law. Most honorably, 
because, when he had gone to take the book from its 
shelf in the day-room, "Barrack-Room Ballads" had 
smiled down upon him with a heart-aching echo of 
the soft, familiar East; so that of a sudden he had 
fairly smelt the sweet, strange, heathen smell of the 
temples in Tien Tsin — had seen the flash of a par- 
rot's wing in the bolo-toothed Philippine jungle. And 
the sight and the smell, on a night like this, were 
enough to make any man lonely. 

Therefore it was with honor indeed that, instead of 
dreaming off into the radiant past through the well- 
thumbed book of magic, he was digging between dull 
sheepskin covers after the key to the bar of the State, 
on which his will was fixed. 

Now, a man who, being a member of the Pennsyl- 



JOHN G. 267 

vania State Police, aspires to qualify for admission to 
the bar, has his work cut out for him. The calls of 
his regular duty, endless in number and kind, leave 
him no certain leisure, and few and broken are the 
hours that he gets for books. 

"Confound the Latin!" grumbled the Sergeant, 
grabbing his head in his two hands. "Well — any- 
way, here 's my night for it. Even the crooks will lie 
snug in weather like this." And he took a fresh hold 
on the poser. 

Suddenly "buzz" went the bell beside him. Before 
its voice ceased he stood at salute in the door of the 
Captain's office. 

"Sergeant," said Captain Adams, with a half -turn 
of his desk-chair, "how soon can you take the field?" 

"Five minutes, sir." 

"There's trouble over in the foundry town. The 
local authorities have jailed some I.W.W. plotters. 
They state that a jail delivery is threatened, that the 
Sheriff can't control it, and that they believe the mob 
will run amuck generally and shoot up the town. Take 
a few men; go over and attend to it." 

"Very well, sir." 

In the time that goes to saddling a horse, the detail 
rode into the storm, First Sergeant Price, on John 
G., leading. 

John G. had belonged to the Force exactly as long 
as had the First Sergeant himself, which was from the 
dawn of the Force's existence. And John G. is a gen- 
tleman and a soldier, every inch of him. Horse-show 
judges have affixed their seal to the self-evident fact 
by the sign of the blue ribbon, but the best proof lies 



268 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

in the personal knowledge of "A" Troop, soundly 
built on twelve years' brotherhood. John G., on that 
diluvian night, was twenty-two years old, and still 
every whit as clean-limbed, alert, and plucky as his 
salad days had seen him. 

Men and horses dived into the gale as swimmers 
dive into a breaker. It beat their eyes shut, with 
wind and driven water, and, as they slid down 
the harp-pitched city streets, the flood banked up 
against each planted hoof till it split in folds above 
the fetlock. 

Down in the country beyond, mud, slush, and water 
clogged with chunks of frost-stricken clay made 
worse and still worse going. And so they pushed on 
through blackest turmoil toward the river road that 
should be their highway to Logan's Ferry. 

They reached that road at last, only to find it as 
lost as Atlantis, under twenty feet of water! The Alle- 
gheny had overflowed her banks, and now there re- 
mained no way across, short of following the stream 
up to Pittsburgh and so around, a detour of many 
miles, long and evil. 

"And that," said First Sergeant Price, "means get- 
ting to the party about four hours late. Baby-talk and 
nonsense ! By that time they might have burned the 
place and killed all the people in it. Let's see, now: 
there 's a railroad bridge close along here, somewhere." 

They scouted till they found the bridge. But be- 
hold, its floor was of cross-ties only — of sleepers to 
carry the rails, laid with wide breaks between, gap- 
ing down into deep, dark space whose bed was the 
roaring river. 



JOHN G. 269 

"Nevertheless," said First Sergeant Price, whose 
spirits ever soar at the foolish onslaughts of trouble 
— "nevertheless, we're not going to ride twenty miles 
farther for nothing. There's a railroad yard on the 
other side. This bridge, here, runs straight into it. 
You two men go over, get a couple of good planks, 
and find out when the next train is due." 

The two Troopers whom the Sergeant indicated 
gave their horses to a comrade and started away 
across the trestle. 

For a moment those who stayed behind could dis- 
tinguish the rays of their pocket flash-lights as they 
picked out their slimy foothold. Then the whirling 
night engulfed them, lights and all. 

The Sergeant led the remainder of the detail down 
into the lee of an abutment, to avoid the full drive of 
the storm. Awhile they stood waiting, huddled to- 
gether. But the wait was not for long. Presently, 
like a code signal spelled out on the black overhead, 
came a series of steadily lengthening flashes — the 
pocket-light glancing between the sleepers, as the 
returning messengers drew near. 

Scrambling up to rail level, the Sergeant saw with 
content that his emissaries bore on their shoulders 
between them two new pine "two-by-twelves." 

"No train's due till five o'clock in the morning," 
reported the first across. 

"Good! Now lay the planks. In the middle of the 
track. End to end. So." 

The Sergeant, dismounting, stood at John G.'s 
wise old head, stroking his muzzle, whispering into 
his ear. 



270 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Come along, John, it's all right, old man!" he 
finished with a final caress. 

Then he led John G. to the first plank. 

"One of you men walk on each side of him. Now, 
John!" 

Delicately, nervously, John G. set his feet, step by 
step, till he had reached the centre of the second 
plank. 

Then the Sergeant talked to him quietly again, 
while two Troopers picked up the board just quitted 
to lay it in advance. 

And so, length by length, they made the passage, 
the horse moving with extremest caution, shivering 
with full appreciation of the unaccustomed danger, 
yet steadied by his master's presence and by the 
friend on either hand. 

As they moved, the gale wreaked all its fury on 
them. It was growing colder now, and the rain, 
changed to sleet, stung their skins with its tiny, 
sharp-driven blades. The skeleton bridge held them 
high suspended in the very heart of the storm. Once 
and again a sudden more violent gust bid fair to 
sweep them off their feet. Yet, slowly progressing, 
they made their port unharmed. 

Then came the next horse's turn. More than a 
single mount they dared not lead over at once, lest the 
contagious fears of one, reacting on another, produce 
panic. The horse that should rear or shy, on that 
wide-meshed footing, would be fairly sure to break 
a leg, at best. So, one by one, they followed over, 
each reaching the farther side before his successor 
began the transit. 



JOHN G. 271 

And so, at last, all stood on the opposite bank, 
ready to follow John G. once more, as he led the way 
to duty. 

"Come along, John, old man. You know how 
you'd hate to find a lot of dead women and babies 
because we got there too late to save them! Make 
a pace, Johnny boy!" 

The First Sergeant was talking gently, leaning over 
his pommel. But John G. was listening more from 
politeness than because he needed a lift. His stride 
was as steady as a clock. 

It was three hours after midnight on that bitter 
black morning as they entered the streets of the 
town. And the streets were as quiet, as peaceful, as 
empty of men, as the heart of the high woods ! 

"Where's their mob?" growled the Sergeant. 

"Guess its mother's put it to sleep," a cold, wet 
Trooper growled back. 

"Well, we thought there was going to be trouble," 
protested the local power, roused from his feather- 
bed. "It really did look like serious trouble, I assure 
you. And we could not have handled serious trouble 
with the means at our command. Moreover, there 
may easily be something yet. So, gentlemen, I am 
greatly relieved you have come. I can sleep in peace 
now that you are here. Good-night! Good-night !" 

All through the remaining hours of darkness the 
detail patrolled the town. All through the lean, pale 
hours of dawn it carefully watched its wakening, 
guarded each danger-point. But never a sign of dis- 
turbance did the passing time bring forth. 
* At last, with the coming of the business day, the 



272 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Sergeant sought out the principal men of the place, 
and from them ascertained the truth. 

Threats of a jail delivery there had been, and a 
noisy parade as well, but nothing had occurred or 
promised beyond the power of an active local officer 
to handle. Such was the statement of one and all. 

"I'll just make sure," said the Sergeant to himself. 

Till two o'clock in the afternoon the detail con- 
tinued its patrols. The town and its outskirts re- 
mained of an exemplary peace. At two o'clock the 
Sergeant reported by telephone to his Captain : — 

"Place perfectly quiet, sir. Nothing seems to have 
happened beyond the usual demonstration of a sym- 
pathizing crowd over an arrest. Unless something 
more breaks, the Sheriff should be entirely capable 
of handling the situation." 

"Then report back to Barracks at once," said the 
voice of the Captain of "A" Troop. "There's real 
work waiting here." 

The First Sergeant, hanging up the receiver, went 
out and gathered his men. 

Still the storm was raging. Icy snow, blinding 
sheets of sharp-fanged smother, rode on the racing 
wind. Worse overhead, worse underfoot, would be 
hard to meet in years of winters. 

But once again men and horses, without an interval 
of rest, struck into the open country. Once again on 
the skeleton bridge they made the precarious crossing. 
And so, at a quarter to nine o'clock at night, the 
detail topped Greensburg's last ice-coated hill and 
entered the yard of its high-perched Barracks. 

As the First Sergeant slung the saddle off John 



JOHN G. 273 

G.'s smoking back, Corporal Richardson, farrier of 
the Troop, appeared before him wearing a mien of 
solemn and grieved displeasure. 

"It's all very well," said he, — "all very well, no 
doubt. But eighty-six miles in twenty-four hours, in 
weather like this, is a good deal for any horse. And 
John G. is twenty-two years old, as perhaps you may 
remember. I've brought the medicine." 

Three solid hours from that very moment the two 
men worked over John G., and when, at twelve 
o'clock, they put him up for the night, not a wet hair 
was left on him. As they washed and rubbed and 
bandaged, they talked together, mingling the Ser- 
geant's trenchantly humorous common sense with the 
Corporal's mellow philosophy. But mostly it was the 
Corporal that spoke, for twenty-four hours is a fair 
working day for a Sergeant as well as for a Troop 
horse. 

"I believe in my soul," said the Sergeant, "that if 
a man rode into this stable with his two arms shot off 
at the shoulder, you'd make him groom his horse 
with his teeth and his toes for a couple of hours before 
you'd let him hunt a doctor." 

"Well," rejoined Corporal Richardson, in his soft 
Southern tongue, "and what if I did? Even if that 
man died of it he'd thank me heartily afterward. 
You know, when you and I and the rest of the world, 
each in our turn, come to Heaven's gate, there'll 
be St. Peter before it, with the keys safe in his pocket. 
And over the shining wall behind — from the inside, 
mind you — will be poking a great lot of heads — • 
innocent heads with innocent eyes — heads of horses 



274 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

and of all the other animals that on this earth are the 
friends of man, put at his mercy and helpless. 

"And it's clear to me — over, John! so, boy! — 
that before St. Peter unlocks the gate for a single one 
of us, he'll turn around to that long row of heads, 
and he'll say: — 

"'Blessed animals in the fields of Paradise, is this 
a man that should enter in?' 

"And if the animals — they that were placed in 
his hands on earth to prove the heart that was in 
him — if the immortal animals have aught to say 
against that man — never will the good Saint let him 
in, with his dirty, mean stain upon him. Never. 
You'll see, Sergeant, when your time comes. Will 
you give those tendons another ten minutes?" 

Next morning John G. walked out of his stall as 
fresh and as fit as if he had come from pasture. And 
to this very day, in the stable of "A" Troop, John G., 
handsome, happy, and able, does his friends honor. 



XIII 

HOT WEATHER 

THIS happened in Pittsburgh in mid-July. For 
days and nights the heat had been merciless. It 
had beaten through the roofs and walls and pave- 
ments, until roofs and walls and pavements gasped 
it seven-fold back. It lay and weltered in streets and 
alleys, a thick and sticky pestilence. The two great 
rivers, sweating beneath it, clogged the air with 
steam. No escape anywhere. 

The people's first resistance had worn away. Weak 
ones were falling, each into his own pit — the weakest 
first. 

Mary Kaufman's time came early. Mary Kauf- 
man had not much chance. Physically she was a chip 
— a rag. Her weight was under a hundred pounds, 
and the little length she had was her only dimension. 
She was under-nourished, anaemic, feebly hysterical. 
Her inheritance, if she had thought of such things, 
might have scared her. Her personal history was dull. 
She was married, and her married life, poor but not 
poverty-stricken, had been troubled. She had one 
child, a seven-year-old boy — and she sometimes 
wished the boy was dead. The boy himself was a 
bright little creature, loving and gentle and happy- 
hearted, but his spirit did not penetrate the fretful 
mind of his mother who saw in him only a burden to 
carry in a tiresome world. 



276 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Under the great, relentless heat — day after day 
of it, night after night — Mary Kaufman began to 
brood, with a vague resentment of the whole scheme 
of life. Then came a morning when she arose from her 
comfortless, tousled bed into the grip of an idea. 

Under its spell she dressed herself and the boy, and, 
without stopping for any pretence of food, hurried 
out into the street and away to the railroad station. 
There she bought tickets to Kittanning, distant some 
sixty miles. 

Halfway to Kittanning, at a station called Butler 
Junction, just as the train had finished its stop and 
was about pulling out, Mary Kaufman suddenly 
sprang to her feet, and, dragging the boy after her, 
hurried out of the car — the rattle-trap day-coach 
gritty with cinders, pasted with soot, reeking with 
heat and with sickening smells of bananas and coal- 
gas and humanity. 

She hurried out of the car, dragging the child after 
her. And just as the couplings gave their first jerk a 
brakeman saw the two jump off, on the wrong side 
of the track. 

He called his conductor. Hanging from the plat- 
form the better to watch her, the two men saw her 
climb down toward the river-bank, then, as though 
she had changed her mind, veer back and start out 
along the bridge. 

"I don't like that," said the brakeman, as a curve 
shut off the sight. 

"No more do I," agreed the conductor. "What's 
worse, I thought she was queer when I took her 
ticket — and — why, yes, by George! That ticket 



HOT WEATHER 277 

was for Kittanning. She should n't have got off here 
at all! 5 ' 

"It's my belief," the brakeman observed, "that 
the woman is crazy, and that she means to drown 
the boy. She's just looking for the likeliest place to 
push him off. That's what she's up to, mark my 
words." 

" With her with a ticket to Kittanning, and getting 
into some mess on the way — there '11 likely be a claim 
against the Company — " The conductor's fears 
increased. 

They stopped the train at the first tower-station 
and sent in a warning to Freeport, the seat of the 
nearest local police. 

Meantime Mary Kaufman, pursued by her idea, 
but as yet confused and vacillating, drifted back 
across the bridge. Its sheer height and the stabbing 
glint of the flood beneath, as it glittered under the 
terrible sun, in some way failed to command her. 
She must seek her thought in another form. Wander- 
ing still, she strayed through the little river settle- 
ment called Garber's Ferry, and so out and beyond, 
until her eyes fell upon a pleasant old white-columned 
farmhouse, standing back among its green lawns, 
under the shade of ample trees — comfortable, pros- 
perous, cool. 

At this sight, so novel to her fevered eyes, the poor 
little city-grown straw whirled into a new eddy. She 
would take the house, so cool and quiet, so white and 
calm behind the big pillars, beneath the green shade. 
She would take it, and then, having killed the boy, — 
she had nothing against the boy, but still she must 



278 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

kill him, — she must kill him, — she would live in it 
free as air, all by herself. 

Mary Kaufman stood in the doorway, gazing into 
the eyes of the mistress of the house. It was haying 
season. Not a man was on the place. 

"I have come to live here," said Mary Kaufman. 

"But I don't know who you are ! " gasped the other. 

"No," said Mary, "but I have come here to live. 
Not with this child. I shall not keep him. I shall live 
here alone. Go away at once." 

"But," cried the mistress, "this is my house!" 

"If you don't go away this minute — now" — 
Mary was talking calmly enough, but the pupils of 
her eyes were very broad and there was warning in 
her face — "if you don't run, quick, I shall have to 
kill you." 

The terrified woman waited for no proof. She ran, 
as fast as the heat and the fright and her unaccus- 
tomed frame would let her, and she carried the news 
to the railroad station at Garber's Ferry, her nearest 
refuge. 

In the interval Mary Kaufman was looking over 
her new home. Pleased with all that she saw, she 
stopped to examine furniture, ornaments, curtains, 
carpets, even the racks of hunting guns, property of 
two sportsman members of the family, that hung in 
the hall. Mary had scarcely even seen a gun before 
— had almost certainly never held one in her hand. 
It amused her to pretend to aim them and to play 
with the locks; and she looked, too, with vague in- 
terest at several revolvers and at the boxes of cart- 
ridges conveniently at hand. She was thus wholly 



HOT WEATHER 279 

absorbed, when the boy began to whimper at her 
knees. 

"Mamma, I'm so hungry!" wailed the poor little 
chap. 

It was already noon and neither of the pair had 
broken fast that day. 

Mary stared at the child strangely. "Well, I may 
as well feed you," she concluded. "There's sure to 
be plenty in the house." 

So she laid down the rifle she was fondling and 
moved off toward the kitchen, the famished child 
trotting behind her, revivified by hope. 

There was, indeed, food enough in the house — 
ample food for many mouths, some of it ready pre- 
pared. Mary stood looking at rows of good things 
— bread, cake, pies, cold meat, and at bins and crocks 
and jars and bags of stores, while the boy gazed too, 
with wonder and delight. And while she so stood, 
motionless, a new impression seized her with a rush. 

"Some one is coming to take this house away from 
me. I can't stop to feed you now — I can't stop for 
anything. And I'll have to leave you alive a little 
longer. Come! Come!" 

Snatching the child by the shoulder she pushed and 
dragged him out of the room, up the stairs, and flung 
him, weakly wailing, into a corner of the upper hall. 

"Stay quiet! There's a good boy! Don't move! 
Don't make a sound!" she whispered vehemently. 
"I'll get you some pie soon. And then I'll kill you. 
But not now — not just yet. You must wait. First 
I must lock all the doors. I must get the guns — all 
the guns, every one." 



280 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Hurrying away down the stairs, she labored back, 
breathless, as fast as her feet would carry her, two 
heavy rifles in her arms. She bore them into a front 
chamber and flung them on the bed. Again and again 
she made the trip, precipitate, as though she knew she 
had not a moment to lose, until every weapon and all 
the ammunition had been transferred to her chosen 
spot. Together they made a small arsenal, for, as it 
chanced, the men of this household loved firearms, each 
rivalling the other in the completeness of his stock. 

"Now," said Mary, "let them come!" 

She stationed herself at a front window, like a 
minute-man on guard. Scarcely had she done so 
when the Freeport police, four strong, bore down on 
the house. They were mopping their brows and 
panting; they were more than a little irritated at the 
trifling nature of the pretext that brought them so far 
afield under conditions so extreme. 

"Wait here in the road," said the Chief. "I'll go 
and bring her out. No need of everybody going in. 
It might excite her." He started up the walk. 

"Who are you?" It was a sharp, thin, woman's 
voice, calling from an upper window. 

"Freeport police." 

"Well, you ain't wanted here. Go right back to 
Freeport." 

"No, no!" cried the Chief, as if remonstrating with 
a child. "You can't talk like that to a policeman, 
you know. I 'm here to get you. You must come right 
along, now, with me." 

Again he started up the walk, but stopped short 
as a bullet sang over his head. 



HOT WEATHER 281 

"For God's sake, look out!" cried the voices be- 
hind him, and in the same instant he caught sight of 
a small, white face, in the upper window, peering 
down at him along the barrel of a rifle, from whose 
muzzle rose a coil of smoke. Wise man that he was, 
he turned and ran for cover like a deer. When he 
peered out again not one of his confreres remained in 
sight. 

"S'st!" came presently, from behind a tree. 

"S'st!" "S'st!" echoed other shelters. 

"Let's hike back and get word to the Burgess," 
whispered the tree. "This looks serious. We don't 
want to do anything rash." 

So they stole away. 

Meantime the country-side was gathering. The 
railroad police appeared; neighboring farmers; vil- 
lage folk. The midday sun blazed high, and they 
sought out spots of shaded concealment whence to 
spy upon the infested house, wherein to plot. Now 
and again some bolder spirit ventured a sortie, in- 
stantly to draw a shot. The aim was erratic, — 
uncalculable, — and none the pleasanter for that. 
There was no safety zone. 

"There's those girls camping over yonder on the 
Carnegie Institute Tech grounds! They're easy 
within range of that big rifle! " exclaimed a voice from 
an unseen source. 

"Yes, and there's a hundred of 'em if there's one. 
Just as like as not to stop a bullet, any of 'em. They 
probably think all this racket's just skylarkin'. They 
won't be watchin' out." 

"Somebody ought to go tell 'em." 



282 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Crock I Crack ! A small green branch with a splint- 
ered stem sailed down among the speakers. 

A pause. Then a dubious voice: "We-el, I don't 
know how you feel — but I ain't so crazy about 
movin' out from behind this here rock — just at 
present. I reckon them girls '11 come in out of the 
rain — take care of themselves — don't you?" 

"Yes, yes!" hastily agreed the others. "Course 
they will." And made speed to quit the topic. 

Crack ! Crack ! Crack ! from the house. 

The Freeport police, returning, had essayed an- 
other attack under cover of a ruse carefully planned, 
only to be driven to their heels. The sole result of 
their venture had been to endanger not only their own 
lives, but those of anybody and everybody within 
range of the windows. 

"Almost seems like they'd have to shoot her" 
ventured some one. 

"Kind of horrible to shoot a woman!" 

"Sure — but we can't get her out this way, that's 
certain. And there's no telling what awful thing she 
may not do, going on as she is." 

"There's plenty of food in that house, and am- 
munition enough for an army." 

"But she's got to sleep sometime." 

"Yes, but they do say crazy people have double 
strength. And what mischief won't she pull off be- 
fore she sleeps! Burning that good old house down 
'11 be the least of it." 

"Oh, say, look there! Who are them fellers comin* 
up the road?" 

Two figures clad in steel-gray uniform had just 



HOT WEATHER 283 

jumped out of a car a little below the house and were 
now approaching rapidly. Something about them, 
even at this first glance, conveyed the certainty that 
with their advent the whole situation had instantly 
changed — that nothing that had gone before 
counted — that business would now begin. The 
swing of their clean-muscled bodies sent a message 
ahead. The stride and snap of their close-putteed 
legs wrote "Finis" to nonsense and mess. 

"State Troopers, by Gad! That's the talk! Now 
we'll see something!" 

"What makes them chaps look so — so kinder 
powerful like?" queried one puzzled voice from be- 
hind a stump. 

"They do that, don't they!" assented another. 

"Dummed if I don't think it might be the collars." 

"Collars, nothing! It's fact!" 

"Oh, yes, I know. But look here: Do you reckon 
you could stand such a collar, stiffened right up 
around your throat, with hooks and metal and all, 
such weather as this? And yet you never saw one o* 
them State men any other way, day nor night, not 
if 't was hot as Tophet. You could n't hire 'em. 
Looks like they had n't no human weaknesses." 

"I've got a cousin on probation with the Force, 
now," a fourth man put in. "He said that collar 
stood for the difference between him and a slouch. 
Slouch meant me. I tried to lick him for it. But 
he'd had two months' training already. Took me a 
week to get over it." The voice laughed ruefully, 
yet with pride of superiority. No one else in the 
Borough owned such a cousin to be licked by. 



284 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Come along, boys, anyway. Let's work down to 
meet 'em and see what they 're goin' to do." 

The voice of the Burgess of Freeport, appealing 
for help in the emergency reported by his police, had 
reached "D" Troop's telephone desk, twenty-four 
miles away, at twenty minutes after two o'clock. 
"D" Troop Barracks is two miles from the Butler 
railway station. A train for Freeport left Butler at 
twenty-five minutes after two. 

Sergeant Charles T. Smith and Private Hess caught 
the two-twenty-five. And if the Troop car touched 
but seldom and lightly on the highroad intervening, 
no one and nothing was the worse for its flight. 

Now on the ground they stood for a moment ap- 
praising the situation. 

"Before we begin," — it was the Sergeant who 
spoke, splendid specimen of a fine old Regular Army 
type, steady, solid, and cool, — "I want every civil- 
ian out of here ! It 's a wonder some one has n't been 
killed already. Clear out, please! — you railroad po- 
lice and all — way out of harm's way. I don't want 
one of you to get hurt." 

Every one obeyed alacritously, with the exception 
of one man — Doane, of the Freeport police. 

"I'd like to stop and see what you're going to do," 
said Doane. 

"All right, then, but keep covered," cautioned the 
Sergeant. 

"But can't I do anything to help?" 

"Well," — the Sergeant reflected, — "maybe when 
we get inside you might call to her and get her at- 
tention at the window. Use judgment." 



HOT WEATHER 285 

Meantime, as if herself absorbed in wonder at the 
new move, Mary Kaufman had ceased firing. 

"Hess, you slide around to the back door, while I 
tackle the front," said the Sergeant, and started 
straight up the path to the house. 

Doane, looking on, felt his heart stop beating. 
With every step he expected to see a rose of flame at 
the window, and the springy figure stagger and fall. 
But the Sergeant reached the door in safety. The 
window remained blank. 

"She has given it up, thank goodness!" thought 
Doane. 

Then he saw that the front door must be locked. 
The Sergeant was setting his shoulder against it. It 
gave, burst in. And in that same instant a shot rang 
out in the interior of the house. The report merged 
and echoed on in a curious metallic tz'zing ! 

By some strange freak of her disordered senses, 
Mary had become aware of Trooper Hess's silent and 
invisible approach. Obsessed by the new conscious- 
ness, she had ignored the movement at the front of 
the house, and, while reloading her guns, had con- 
centrated her watch in the other direction. Hovering 
at the head of the stairs, she had awaited her mo- 
ment, her eyes on the door at the back of the hall 
below. This, also, she had locked and barred. She 
saw the handle turn. Then, in a second more, she 
saw the whole fabric begin to give, to yield. With a 
final crack the door swung in. Mary fired. The range 
was so short she could hardly miss — yet miss she 
did, and the bullet, striking the bell of the telephone, 
added its jarring scream to the crash of the gun. 



286 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Both officers were now making for the stairs. 
Mary, flying before them back into her bedroom ar- 
senal, slammed and locked the door. 

The two men, with a glance at each other, stood 
aside, to right and to left, against the wall. 

Crash! came a bullet, tearing through the panel. 

"Six-shooter, that one!" said Hess. 

The Sergeant nodded. 

Crash ! Again the panel splintered. 

"Let her empty it." 

Crash! Crash! 

Crash ! With the fifth report the wood flew again. 

"On the next I go in. You wait, Hess," the Ser- 
geant commanded. 

Crash ! the lead struck through. 

With a mighty shove the Sergeant drove in. Mary 
stood by the far window, her revolver raised as if to 
fire. As the Sergeant jumped for her, she pulled the 
trigger and a bullet grazed his cheek! 

He seized her in his arms, his grip closing over her 
revolver hand. She struggled, vainly, to turn the 
point upon him, and again her weapon flashed. 

Doane, down below, had bettered the Sergeant's 
instruction by twice firing his own revolver close 
under the window, instead of attempting to divert 
Mary's attention by speech. The officers had counted 
these two reports, in reckoning with the six chambers 
of Mary's weapon. 

But Sergeant Smith now held the frail Fury safe in 
his arms, while the revolver, gently twisted out of her 
clutch, lay harmless and empty on the floor where he 
had tossed it. 



HOT WEATHER 287 

"Hess," he said, "you take her now, while I go 
hunt for the boy." 

"I'm awfully afraid she's killed him!" 

"My notion, too. I pretty near hate to look!" 

As the Sergeant left the room, Mary seemed to 
relax all over, as though her fighting spirit was fled. 
Private Hess lightened his hold, to give her greater 
comfort. In an instant, with the quickness of an eel, 
she had writhed out of his hands and darted across 
the room. With a lightning movement she turned 
and faced him, another loaded revolver in her hand. 
But this time the soldier was her master in dexterity. 
He disarmed her with careful ease. 

Meantime Sergeant Smith was searching the house 
for the boy. Up and down, in closets and cupboards 
and boxes, everywhere he sought him, and sought in 
vain. 

"Wonder if he managed to slip away before she 
locked the doors — before the siege began," he was 
saying to himself, as he mounted the attic stairs. 

In the attic was a bedchamber. Its bed was cov- 
ered with a large counterpane, broad enough to 
sweep the floor at the sides. Sergeant Smith, standing 
in the doorway, glanced once around the bare little 
place. Then, his eyes on the bed, he stopped short 
and listened, while he held his breath. Another mo- 
ment and he was on his hands and knees, lifting the 
edge of the counterpane to look beneath. 

"Come along out, now, son," he was saying, very 
quietly, "it's all right." 

A pause. Silence. No movement. Then a shuffle 
and squirming. A pair of copper-toed shoes appeared, 



288 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

much-scuffed and rusty, two coarse-stockinged legs, 
a patched and diminutive trousers' seat, a middy 
blouse, a tow-head buried in a pair of arms. No 
movement more. The head did not turn or lift. The 
locked arms were fixed and rigid — a last defense. 
The whole body was stiff. 

"Get up," said the Sergeant, very low. 

With a gasp the boy obeyed, springing back as he 
did so, as if to avoid he knew not what. 

It was a good little face, intelligent, sweet, but 
deathly white and ghastly with exhaustion and mor- 
tal fear. The gaze was wide and staring, the blue lips 
stretched back over the teeth. 

Sergeant Smith said nothing at all, still kneeling 
motionless, holding the boy with his steady, kindly 
eyes. It was as though the eyes were suns, melting 
their way where no words could reach, into the un- 
derstanding heart. The child's whole life came into 
his own wide eyes and peered out, tensely questioning 
there. Then, with a little quivering wail, he tottered 
forward and flung his arms tight around the Ser- 
geant's neck, burying his face against that stiff high 
collar that does not betoken a slouch. 

"I did n't know it was you! Oh, I did n't know it 
was you! " he cried, and broke into long, dry sobs. 

The Sergeant picked him up in his arms, by and 
by, and carried him downstairs. As Mary Kaufman 
saw them so, a flicker of light broke through her 
darkness. "Now may God have mercy on my soul!" 
said she. 




The Sergeant picked him up in his Arms and carried 
him downstairs 



XIV 

GET YOUR MAN 

" When once you start after a man, you must get him." 

John C. Geoome, 
Superintendent Pennsylvania State Police. 

TT began toward the end of January, when the snow 
* lay deep on the hillsides, and when, as the smut- 
faced miners came out of the shafts at night, bitter 
winds caught and belabored them, wearily flounder- 
ing along their homeward way. Winter, up there in 
Western Pennsylvania, strikes hard, and it is all a 
man can do to earn his daily bread and take his 
meagre comfort of it. He needs no extra burden. 
Life itself weighs heavily enough. 

But bad hearts ignore chivalry. Out of some cave 
of slime had crept men mean enough to rob the poor. 
For four weeks running, on pay-day night, unidenti- 
fied scoundrels had waylaid the workmen on the 
lonely roads, and at the point of knife or gun had 
taken their envelopes from them. Or, missing their 
prey in the open, they had entered and rifled the bare 
little homes. Sometimes, even, they had boldly done 
their work in the very streets of the villages, snatch- 
ing the whole fruits of the week's hard toil and de- 
parting before their paralyzed victim could recover 
wits to resist. 

United Mine Workers men and laborers in the zinc 
and chemical plants were the principal sufferers. For 



290 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

a while they bore it sheep-fashion, in the thought that 
the curse would pass. But when, week after week, 
their all was taken from them, it became clear that 
the thing had settled to a steady gait; then they re- 
volted, demanded protection under the law, called 
for help — help from the State Police. 

The Captain of "A" Troop received their com- 
plaint and acted according to the way of the Force. 
Determining at once the practical centre of trouble, he 
fixed a sub-station there. The little town of Langeloth 
was the point that he chose. To that town he sent 
three men, Corporal Mauk, with Privates Nicholson 
and McCormick, under orders to catch the robbers 
and, while they were at it, to clean up the place. 

The three officers settled themselves in their new 
quarters very much as a bird lights on a new branch. 
Then they jumped into their job. 

Entirely aside from the robberies, they found, the 
place would take quite a bit of cleaning-up. It was 
interesting to see how many citizens, whether of the 
villages or of the open country roundabout, brought 
to their door tales of wrong and pleas for redress, 
knowing that succor lay now within reach. This one 
complained of a purveyor of cocaine, this other of a 
disorderly house, a third reported a butcher who sold 
to the people diseased beef. And so on, with pleas 
and responses, until Saturday came, — pay-day, — 
bringing with it its special occasion. 

Now, what the three Troopers did in Langeloth on 
that particular Saturday, the 26th of February, mat- 
tered a good deal to the people of Langeloth, but 
matters to this story not at all. 



GET YOUR MAN 291 

This story begins with the evening of February 
27th, Sunday, when the news came screaming over 
the sub-station wire that Mary O'Hagan, a Lange- 
loth miner's wife, had been brutally assaulted and 
afterwards beaten by a man unknown; and that she 
now lay in her own home near death. 

Corporal Mauk and his two comrades were sitting 
at supper when the telephone rang. McCormick 
jumped up to answer, taking the message in the 
steady, methodical way that the Force employs. But 
as he returned to report to his Corporal, his eyes 
gleamed with a cold fire. 

Without a word Mauk and Nicholson sprang up 
leaving the half -finished meal. Snatching their caps 
all three men tramped out of the room. Five min- 
utes later the drum of their horses' feet had died on 
the outer dark. 

They might have waited to finish their meat? But 
they wait for nothing, these lads of the "Black Hus- 
sars." And besides, the one crime in all the catalogues 
of crimes that stands out sharpest for their deadly 
enmity is the crime against women, fouler, as they 
hold, even than murder itself. 

The moon was mounting a sparkling sky. The 
snow sang under flying hoofs. The keen, dry cold 
made almost a perfume in the air. 

"She mustn't die before we get there, boys," 
exclaimed Mauk. 

As his words smoked a cloud behind his head, the 
three lifted their hardy little range horses into greater 
speed. 

Into the open country they rode, over routes where 



292 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

few had passed before them since the last deep fall of 
snow, and so into the street of a tiny "mine-patch" 
settlement, and to O'Hagan's door. 

It was a ramshackle door, in a ramshackle "Com- 
pany house," down at heel, out at elbow, dirty-faced 
and unashamed after a long succession of tenants who 
cared for none of these things. But Mary O'Hagan, 
decent woman that she was, had kept her place clean 
within, and the room into which the three Troopers 
stepped was as tidy as one pair of hard-working hands 
could make it. 

That room was full, now — full of keening women, 
crouching with their aprons flung over their heads; of 
men, silent, stiff-mouthed, stormy-faced; of fright- 
ened children, staring from their mothers' knees. 

"Where's O'Hagan?" asked Corporal Maiik, as he 
crossed the threshold. 

It was a gray-haired Scottish foreman who an- 
swered. 

"O'Hagan's ben th' hoose wi' his wife," said he. 
"Hurry doon, mon. He's wearied waitin' on ye." 

Mauk strode across and knocked at the inner door. 
It opened quickly and closed after him. Twenty 
minutes passed before he emerged. Then, with a nod 
of farewell, he would have left the house. 

But women caught at his blouse-skirt, men laid 
hand on his arm. Doctor and soldier in one they 
knew all State Troopers to be. They must hear the 
word. 

"Will Mary die?" cried a girl. 

The Corporal looked at her strangely. "Maybe it 
would be better so," said he. 



GET YOUR MAN 293 

From the women a long, low wail went up. From 
the men a sort of shapeless curse. 

"Do yez know who done ut? Can yez get 'urn?" a 
burly Celt rapped out. 

"That's my job," the Trooper replied; and with 
the ring of his speech every man in the room was his 
brother. 

Once outside and alone with his comrades, the Cor- 
poral repeated the description that he had been able 
to draw from Mary O'Hagan's tormented mind. 

"It should be fairly easy," was Nicholson's com- 
ment. 

"Thank God, it's no easier!" Mauk rejoined; "or 
O'Hagan would be a murderer before this night is 
done." 

No need to tell in detail how they sifted their mat- 
ter down, or how within two hours they had learned 
to a practical certainty that one Adolph Ofenloch, an 
Austrian miner, was the man they sought. The thing 
is a method — a science. They are doing it all the 
time. You can pick your man out of a community as 
a conjurer picks a card from the pack — once you 
know how. 

Ofenloch lived in a miner's boarding-house in a set- 
tlement some few miles beyond. Thither the Troop- 
ers betook themselves straight. 

"Ofenloch ain't in yet," said the sleepy landlord, 
standing in his doorway, candle in hand. 

"But I'll just have a look, all the same," said 
Mauk. 

"Sure!" the other assented, leading the way. 

Search revealed that the man had told the truth. 



294 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Ofenloch was not in that house. But it revealed an- 
other point of more cheering character: Ofenloch's 
trunk was in the house and in that trunk the sum of 
three hundred dollars in United States currency. 

"He's hiding out now," remarked the Corporal. 
"And he'll try to make his get-away. But he'll 
never leave without his roll. He'll be here after it 
later in the night." 

So the three settled down in the boarding-house 
kitchen to wait. 

The place was wretched enough. A faint feather of 
steam, rising from the spout of a rusty iron kettle on 
the dilapidated stove, made its single livelier note. 
Otherwise the battered table with its dirty cloth, the 
crippled chairs, the few ruinous dishes that shared the 
shelf with the sharp-voiced clock, the foul floor, the 
scrawled and grimy walls, and two glaring, naked 
chromos in fly-specked frames, composed its graceless 
whole. A soot-smudged reflector lamp, its wry wick 
feebly smoking, revealed the scene, but, as the visitors 
at once made certain, the window curtains, wrecks 
though they were, effectively shut it away from the 
outer world. 

Silently the three men watched, while their host 
slept, his head on the table buried in his arms. Now 
and again came a shuffle on the step. Each Trooper, 
at the sound, would spring to the sharp edge of readi- 
ness. Then the door would open while some drunken 
miner stumbled in, half blindly seeking his accus- 
tomed bed. 

Most of them were submerged too far to notice the 
presence of strangers in the room. Some floundered 



GET YOUR MAN 295 

upstairs to their mattresses. The rest, unequal to the 
effort, dropped where they stood, succumbed to the 
heat of the room, and slept. Little by little the air 
choked with thick, sickening odors, and strange, un- 
human noise. 

It was the ancient, accustomed finale of the thing 
that begins on "good old Saturday night." In its 
midst the three clean-cut young soldiers stood out 
like three bright steel lances against a heap of mud. 

Mauk, almost six feet tall, heavily built and fine- 
looking, had been a school-teacher in earlier days, 
after the famous old Lincolnian plan by which a man 
delves in the lumber camps or on the farm between 
school sessions, and sits up half the night to read law 
and the classics the whole year through. Now the 
Force had contributed soldierly discipline to the mak- 
ing of an all-round man. Nicholson and McCormick 
were sturdy variants of the type. And there they sat, 
watching and waiting, while the clock on the shelf 
ticked into the smallest hour. 

Now and again some sleeper, waking and dimly 
troubled by the presence of guests so strange, would 
pull himself up and stumble toward the door. 

"Better go to sleep again," Mauk would advise, 
laying a friendly hand on his shoulder. "None of us 
are quitting here just yet." 

And so the half-stupefied man, soothed out of his 
hazy notion, would once more subside. Outward- 
bound news was contraband that night. 

The sharp-voiced clock marked a quarter after 
one. 

"He'll be along soon," muttered McCormick. 



296 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Click — click — click — click, snapped the clock, 
click — click — 

On the cold snow outside a step came creaking — 
a heavy step, but swift and steady, unlike all those 
others, vague and shambling, that had neared the 
door before. 

The three exchanged glances. Their bodies bent 
forward as their feet slid back. 

A sharp knock. 

Automatically the boarding-house keeper shifted 
his head within the pillow of his arms. His face was 
creased deep with the pattern of his jersey. His eyes 
remained tight shut. " Come in," he called in a sleep- 
drowned voice. 

The door opened. On the threshold stood a man — 
not Ofenloch, not the worse-than-murderer, but a big 
negro, swinging a most portentous gun. 

"Hands up, everybody !" he shouted. 

In the first instant, light-dazzled, the newcomer 
had seen only the sleepers grovelling on the floor. 

But as all three Troopers jumped to grapple with 
him, Nicholson first, he looked up, with an oath, 
fired point-blank, and sprang backward into the 
dark. 

Two paces distant, and the aim at the heart! Poor 
Nicholson sank down without even a groan. 

The Corporal, behind, scarcely glanced at him. 

"Mack, you stay back here and get the man!" he 
called to McCormick, as he leaped over the body and 
out through the door. 

But the Corporal's eyes needed also their second of 
time to adjust themselves. Passing so suddenly from 



GET YOUR MAN 297 

lamp-light into darkness, he tripped on some miser- 
able thing in the ash-pile by the steps, stumbled and 
fell. As he fell, and rolled, his holster ripped away 
from his belt, the revolver dropped out, and, in the 
moment of fumbling that followed, he could not lay 
hand on the weapon among the deep mass of rubbish 
into which it had plunged. 

Meantime he heard the beat of the negro's steps 
flying far and farther into the night. 

"Better get the darky than the gun!" argued 
Ma uk, and forthwith suited his action to the thought. 

The negro, a limber six-footer, was running for his 
life. And he had a long start. But the Trooper, as it 
happened, was running for something just a little 
dearer than life — for the honor of the Force. And 
he gained on that darky. 

The negro struck a clean, straight-away course, 
over the moon-flooded plain. Perforce he must trust 
to speed, for nowhere did any cover offer. 

On they raced, the two of them. And though he 
took no precious time to look behind, the fugitive 
knew that his pursuer was gaining. 

Suddenly he wheeled. 

"Surrender!" called Mauk — Mauk with empty 
hands to the blood-stained criminal aiming a gun. 

"No!" shouted the black man. "I've killed one 
State Trooper to-night. I'll never be taken alive. 
You go next!" and he fired. 

Mauk dropped to the ground as the trigger fell. 
The bullet sang over his head. Once more the negro 
was running. 

"He'll have loaded every chamber before he 



298 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

knocked at the door," thought Maiik. "Four shots 
left." 

And the race began again. 

Steadily, steadily, the Trooper crept up, with eaoh 
jump nearing a little. But the big black, though he 
could not keep his lead, was good for yet much dis- 
tance. Nearer, yet a trifle nearer, the voice of the 
singing snow rose on his ear. 

A second time he swung round, threw his gun down 
at aim, and fired, his stoutish figure outlined clearly 
by the moon and the luminous snow. A second time, 
helped by the brilliant light, Mauk seized the nick 
of the instant to drop, eluding death. 

"Three left," the Trooper counted and sped again 
after his speeding quarry. 

But now, with the distance between them ever les- 
sening, came sooner the moment when the quarry 
dared risk no more. He fired from a range of fifteen 
paces. But the Corporal, Heaven favoring, dodged 
and escaped as before. 

"Two," reckoned Mauk, scarcely losing his stride's 
length. 

Up to this point their course had lain straight out- 
ward from its starting-place. Now, however, across 
the otherwise featureless field, showed a long, low 
inequality, the shape of a fence, weed-draped and 
clogged with snow. And the line of that fence, run- 
ning at right angles with the course, formed the sec- 
ond side of a triangle. 

"He'll take to that for cover," muttered the Cor- 
poral. With the notion he somehow let out another 
link, speeding up. "If only I can get my two hands 



GET YOUR MAN 299 

on him," he thought, "never mind that I have no 
gun!" 

Close to the fence the black man turned again. 
Mauk, now so near that the powder splashed his 
cheek, jerked aside, avoiding the bullet. In a flash 
the fugitive cleared the rail. But the Trooper, leap- 
ing after, and almost at grips, by evil fortune caught 
his foot in a sprawling tangle of snow-hidden barbed 
wire. He fell heavily. 

After the manner of barbed wire everywhere, the 
tangle spread itself out, wreathed itself, crawled like 
a live thing clutching and holding with its myriad 
impish claws, while the victim struggled in the midst 
of it. When at last he broke free, the negro had al- 
ready established an ominous lead. 

"Which we'll cut again," thought Mauk, and 
chased after. 

Meantime, back at the boarding-house, Private 
McCormick, no small honor to discipline, sat alert 
and alone among the prostrate and snoring crew. 
How little, how very little, he wanted to sit there 
Heaven knew. But orders are orders. And, moreover, 
he, too, had to get his man. Afterwards he thought 
that his ears grew mobile in those long minutes of 
reaching and stretching after distant sounds. 

And where was poor Nicholson's body? 

Six feet is short range for a gunman to miss in. 
Perhaps, in the instant of firing, the hand of the negro 
wavered under his sudden recognition of the uniform 
of the State. Aimed at the heart, his bullet flew high, 
striking the left collar-bone, shattering it to bits. 



300 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

The impact had felled Nicholson like a log — crum- 
pled him up on the floor. But before the shrewish 
clock on the shelf had snapped many seconds away 
he was up and on his feet again, plunging through 
the door. 

For a bit McCormick's yearning ears had detected 
the sound of his footsteps. Then utter stillness suc- 
ceeded, punctured at intervals by shots. 

"One," McCormick counted. "Two. Three. 
Four." 

"Single shots," he pondered. "Now, what's the 
meaning of that? " 

Nicholson, following the two dark figures so far 
ahead, counted the shots also. Meantime his running 
was a miracle. Some way that bitter pain in his 
shoulder seemed only to act as a spur. The jar of 
each step wrenched like red-hot pincers — and yet, 
in spite of it, the lad was running his very best. 

When the negro, firing his fourth shot, vaulted the 
fence, Nicholson was already near enough to see the 
manoeuvre. And so, because he understood it, he 
instantly changed his course, darting away on the 
hypothenuse of the triangle, to head off his man. 

Calculating speed and space as he flew, he knew 
that he should make the finish in time. Already he 
was halfway across. He fixed his eye on the fugitive, 
now visible for the upper third of his body beyond 
the fence. And, so gazing and so running, he failed 
completely to see a ditch directly in his path. 

That ditch was eight feet deep and twelve feet 
wide. It was faced with soft white snow. And yet, as 
Nicholson smashed to the bottom, it could not have 



GET YOUR MAN 301 

hurt him worse had it been a pit of jagged stones. 
The splintered and sharp edges of his broken shoulder 
ground together under the impact of his whole weight. 
For a second his eyes saw purple and black in spots. 
A wave of ghastly sickness swept through him. Then 
he was up and climbing, out and away again, his left 
arm swinging oddly as he ran. 

But the interruption had cost too much. Clearly, 
he could no longer hope to head off the man. 

Mauk, tearing down the trail from above, perceived 
him now — the unmistakable Trooper figure silhou- 
etted against the white. And Mauk's breast, at the 
sight, even at that tense and preoccupied moment, 
filled quick with the fires of unspeakable wrath. 

In Nicholson's head, however, one single idea was 
burning. "I must get that man! I must get that 
man. If I don't, I '11 run till Easter. I '11 never go back 
to the Troop." 

There was only one way to get him now. Through 
the heart. To wing him would be to lose the trick. 

But Nicholson, you see, as member of the Force's 
revolver team, was one of the four best recorded mil- 
itary revolver shots in the world. He waited till the 
moment of greatest possible proximity had come. 
Then, forty yards from the fugitive, he raised his 
Colt's and fired a single shot. 

The negro flung up his arms and plunged out of 
sight. 

A moment later, as Nicholson reached the spot, 
Mauk was already stooping over the body. 

"Dead," Mauk growled. "Clean shot, I must 
say. Through the heart." 



302 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Then he rose to his feet, straightening up stiffly, 
and turned on his comrade a face of withering scorn. 

"McCormick," he began, "you quitter! You 
rookie! If any one had told me this morning that you 
would disobey orders I — what? Good — Lord! — 
Nick, man, is this your ghost?" 

Later that night Private McCormick, still alone, but 
grimly contented, conveyed the worse-than-murderer, 
Ofenloch, through very dangerous waters safe to jail. 

In the black of the morning, Dr. McKee, of Bur- 
gettstown, extracted a 44-40 flat-nosed Winchester 
bullet from among the debris that had been Private 
Nicholson's left collar-bone. 

Later still, at the Coroner's inquest, the identity 
of the dead negro was clearly established; he was 
Charles Smith, of Braddock, Pennsylvania, profes- 
sional bad man and pay-envelope robber. 

" 'T was all he did for a livin', just skinnin' us poor 
devils," as one grim-faced miner averred. 

And the tone that rang through his speech found 
open expression in street and slope and shaft-bucket 
where men slapped each other's shoulders, rejoicing, 
over deliverance from a curse. 

But the Coroner's jury, in the matter of the ver- 
dict, took the bit in its teeth. 

"Suicide. We find that Charles Smith met death 
by suicide," that jury continued to insist. 

"But Private Nicholson shot him — shot him 
through the heart!" protested Mauk. "Verdict must 
be rendered according to the evidence." 

"Of course, of course. That's just what it is — 



GET YOUR MAN 303 

just what we 're sayin', ain't it? The deceased at- 
tacked a Pennsylvania State Policeman with a gun. 
Any man that attacks a Pennsylvania State Policeman 
with a gun commits suicide/ 9 insisted the jury in all 
painstaking seriousness. 

Then the Corporal had to argue, to reason, to ex- 
pound; for he wanted the formal verdict that would 
clear his comrade. At last the thing came straight. 

"Charles Smith," declared the jury, "while in the 
commission of a felony, met his death at the hands of 
a member of the State Police. And the said member 
of the State Police is hereby exonerated from all 
blame." 



XV 

NO STORY AT ALL 

THE Lieutenant stood out on the Barracks steps, 
in the shining dew of the morning. A sunrise 
grin illumined his face, and his heels eased rhyth- 
mically up from the plane as though his toes had 
springs in them. Cold water and soap and a fund- 
amental grooming gleamed from every inch of his 
body. 

"Did you sleep well?" I asked, by way of being 
preposterous. 

"Sleep!" scoffed he; "why, sleep's for breakfast!" 

" * Sleep for your breakfast, 
Walk for your dinner, 
And you 're a very poor soldier 
If you can't go to bed supperless.' 

That's what my old grandmother used to tell me — 
sister and daughter and mother of soldiers, and a 
sensible woman, anyway. Look here ! See our moon- 
flowers." 

Out in the front of the Barracks, in the midst of the 
grass-plot, blooms a bed of roses. But the turf around 
the bed had suddenly developed a crop related to 
roses in no sense at all. 

There was an ancient tin pail. There was a rickety 
old fishing-basket. There was a small, sharp-pronged 
iron trident with a long handle made of fresh-cut 



NO STORY AT ALL 305 

hickory sapling still wearing its bark. And, finally, 
there was a brand-new and wholly anonymous fyke. 

In the battered tin pail gasped a dark and slippery 
mass of suckers and catfish, disturbed occasionally by 
spasmodic motion. In the old basket lay other suck- 
ers, that would never move again. In the clear water 
of the concrete horse-trough, near by, other catfish, 
rescued in extremis by some sympathetic Trooper, 
raced hither and yon with fully restored energy. And 
then, the fyke. 

A fyke is a thing invented when the god of the 
fishes was sleeping. Its mouth is broad and deep and 
deadly. Its body is a hopeless abyss. At intervals 
the body is distended by slender hoops, each with a 
deadly mouth of its own. And when its tail is weighted 
fast upstream and its rapacious jaws yawn at its full 
length below, few are the fish that pass it safely by; 
nor does any that enters, small or great, return. 

A fish's inferno at all seasons, there are times and 
places when and where the Law of the State also 
holds the fyke abhorrent. Section 4 of the Act of 
May 1, 1909, P. L. 353, reads in part: — 

It shall be unlawful to use fyke nets . . . from the first 
day of June to the thirtieth day of June inclusive . . . nor 
shall such nets be used in any streams inhabited by trout, 
at any time of the year. . . . Provided further, that each 
fyke net . . . must have fastened thereon a metallic tag 
bearing the name and residence of the owner thereof. Any 
person violating any of the provisions in this section, shall, 
on conviction ... be subject to a penalty of twenty dol- 
lars, together with the forfeiture of all boats, nets, and 
other appliances used, to the Department of Fisheries. 



306 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

With another look at the collection on the grass, 
"Come inside," I begged, "and tell me the story." 

"Oh, but it's no story at all," protested the Lieu- 
tenant. "We heard they were there, and we went 
and got 'em — just an everyday occurrence." 

Just an everyday occurrence, in the manner of the 
Force, with nothing extraordinary about it — and 
that is exactly why it is told here, as seen, or gathered 
from those concerned. 

Up in the hills east of Pittsburgh lies a certain big, 
well-watered forest tract, at present operated only 
for ice production. The owners have built large 
storage houses, they have dammed their generous 
creek to get broad water surface, and they cut each 
year great quantities of clear, thick ice, netting a 
substantial profit. 

This stream of theirs is called Dove Run. Dove 
Run City, consisting of a general store with a dozen 
houses more or less under its wing, lies all of five miles 
away from the ice-houses, and is the nearest point of 
human habitation. So, as the ice dealers, what with 
their dams, their storehouses, and their hoisting ma- 
chinery, not to mention their great timber area, have 
a considerable property to protect, and no neigh- 
bors to help them at it, they keep in their employ 
a private watchman. 

The watchman, a good, decent old man, lives alone 
in the heart of the tract entrusted to his care; and he 
spends twelve hours of each day, winter and summer, 
contentedly pottering about the place. 

He is a good woodsman, knowing every tree, rock, 



NO STORY AT ALL 307 

and runlet in all his domain. He would do his duty 
always, to the extent of reason. But you could not 
in reason expect him to make much of a fight against 
ugly marauders, should such appear, nor could you 
expect him to risk incurring the active ill-will of any 
one prone to revenge. His home is too solitary and 
exposed, and, above all, he has only private authority 
behind him. 

This watchman, then, had long been a witness to 
fish-poaching, practised in spite of him. Gangs from 
a distance would swoop down on his dams out of 
season, fish their fill, using illegal devices, and be off 
and away long before he could send word out of the 
woods concerning them. Incidentally, whenever, in 
the course of his daily rounds, he came upon these un- 
trammelled sons of Belial, they would offer enthu- 
siastically to throw him either into his dam or into 
their own camp-fire, with the single alternative that 
he mind his own business. All this irritated the old 
man more than a little, — but in point of fact he was 
helpless, — until the night before the dewy morning 
that begins this story that is no story at all. 

It was an hour after Taps. The Barracks reserves 
were sound asleep — asleep as fire-engine horses are, 
with their wits on tiptoe behind their eyelids and 
their shoulders one jump from the collar. The or- 
derly at the telephone sat with the "Digest of Crimi- 
nal Law and Procedure" between his elbows, grinding 
page 26. It is your best chance at hard nuts, when 
the crowd has gone to the Field of Dreams and the 
troubled world outside lies at its maximum of peace. 

" — 'From some lawful act done in an unlawful 



308 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

manner,'" muttered the orderly; "'from some law- 
ful act done — '" and then — Z-zing went the tele- 
phone at his side. 

"State Police," his clear voice answered before the 
bell ceased echoing. 

Mr. Hopper — Joe Hopper, storekeeper of Dove 
Run City — introduced himself on the wire. 

"Old Mr. Allardyce," said he, mumbling hurriedly, 
like a man afraid of being overheard — "old Mr. Al- 
lardyce, watchman on the Dove Run tract, has just 
sent out word that a gang of poachers is operating 
on his dams" — and sharp upon that terse statement 
came the click of the receiver returned to its hook. 

Dove Run City, be it known, was anxious enough 
on its own account to see the poaching traffic stopped. 
The local and visiting poachers are amateur ruffians 
of some standing, drink heavily on their trips, and 
leave forest fires, robbed farms, and frightened women 
marking their trail in whatever direction. But Dove 
Run City, too, was desperately afraid of acquiring 
the ill-will of such gentry. Their casual depreda- 
tions were heavy enough, without drawing down their 
deliberate wrath upon the weak and isolated little 
community. Better speak low and fast, then, with an 
eye over either shoulder, or else bear in silence and 
inform not at all. 

"I'll take this job myself," said the Lieutenant, 
springing out of bed. And as he jumped downstairs, 
buckling on his holster belt, he named the Trooper 
to accompany him — named also a four-months Re- 
cruit who should profit by a mild taste of experience 
under his officer's eye. 



NO STORY AT ALL 309 

It is a goodish trip from Barracks out to that 
forest tract, and time counted. So they took the 
Troop car, covering the road to Dove Run City at 
a speed that the hour allowed. But the "General 
Store" was sound asleep, and Joe Hopper's wife, peer- 
ing from an upper window in her nightcap, had no 
views to offer concerning Joe's whereabouts. Joe was 
"away" — quite as the Lieutenant expected. Joe 
had done his part, and had no idea whatever of let- 
ting himself in for identification with a subject so 
delicate. 

So the Lieutenant drove on, climbing the worn 
wood-roads through the tall timber, till at last the 
headlights picked out old Allardyce's cabin, snuggled 
like a big fungus beneath a wall of rock. 

It was half an hour after midnight by now, and 
Allardyce had turned in. But, whether he had fore- 
seen the moment, or whether by usual habit, he 
needed only to put on his shoes, coat, and hat, to be 
fully dressed. However, the prospect ahead so ex- 
cited him that all his energies fled to his tongue. Sit- 
ting on the edge of the bed in the midst of a turbulent 
ocean of patchwork quilt, one shoe on and the other 
dangling in his hand, he had to rehearse over and 
over again the story of the day. Each time that he 
came to his own personal clash with the invaders he 
grew more truculent. 

"... An' they standin' there, the big, ugly loafers, 
up to their belts in water, layin' their traps right 
under my eyes ! I says to 'em, I says : — 

"'Git out o' here. Don't you know you're law- 
breakers and thieves?' 



310 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"They says, 'Git out yerself, old feller, and git 
out quick, or we'll drown ye!' 

"I says, 'That's what you've been threatenin', 
you and the likes of you, any time these three years. 
Now I give ye fair warnin',' I says, 'I'm done with 
ye. I'll have no more nonsense from ye. No, sir I 
B'gosh!' says I, 'if ye ever darst to come here again 
I'll jest slough ye!' 

"So then I went off and left 'em. I would n't 
demean myself with argyin' with such no further. 
And after nightfall a chance come to get word in to 
the settlement — " 

"Let him put that other shoe on, for Heaven's 
sake, or we won't get away till daylight," whispered 
the Lieutenant to the Trooper sitting by the bunk. 

The Trooper went outside and counted stars. 

They bounced along the wood-roads a mile or so 
farther, and then, under the old man's guidance, cut 
in on foot. He displayed a rabbit's knowledge of the 
place — minute and accurate. Finally, between half- 
past two and three o'clock, at some distance ahead, 
through the underbrush, appeared the dull light of a 
low fire. 

"That fire," said Allardyce, trembling with excite- 
ment, "is on the far side of yonder road, on the top 
of the bank and back a little. Opposite to it, on the 
side of the road, is an ice-house. Below, to the left, is 
Hemlock Run, where trout is plenty. That 's the place 
where they've got their fyke net — the villains! But 
I'll fix 'em this time, so I will!" — and he shook his 
fist ferociously. 

The detail moved quietly up to the ice-house, a 



NO STORY AT ALL 311 

big, dim hulk in the darkness. Against the wall away 
from the road leaned a ladder, reaching to the roof- 
tree. The Lieutenant climbed the ladder, hoping 
from that height to get a glimpse of those around the 
fire. But naught could be seen. The interlacing 
underbrush confused the view, and no one was stir- 
ring. To advance on the place, crackling twigs, would 
merely serve to warn the quarry, who would fade 
away into leafy nothingness in the twinkling of an 
eye. So the only course was to sit tight, awaiting de- 
velopments with the dawn. 

At last pale patches began to show between the 
hemlock-tops overhead. Birds stirred, with broken 
twitterings. And then of a sudden the fire shot up 
into a blaze, where some one had kicked it and thrown 
on a log. 

"They're going to make a cup of coffee, then draw 
their nets and get away before daylight," whispered 
the Lieutenant, from the depths of experience. 

He gathered his forces, made a forward movement, 
hid again in the underbrush, and waited. 

In a very few moments, talking together as men do 
who still have sleep in their throats, three figures, 
heels first, came lumbering down the slope from the 
camp-fire. Two of them crashed on along the bank 
toward the point where Allardyce had said their net 
was set. The third moved up toward the ambush. 

The Lieutenant waited until the pair, wading into 
the stream, were actually lifting the fyke. Then : — 

" Go arrest them," said he to the Trooper, indicat- 
ing that the Recruit should follow. 

As the two officers quietly left cover, the^ third 



312 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

and nearest poacher caught sight of them. Horror- 
stricken, yet thinking himself unseen, he turned to 
warn his mates. Not daring to lift his voice, he stood 
like a disordered semaphore, wildly waving his arms 
and pointing. Too late. His mates saw him well 
enough, but they saw the Troopers also. The sight 
seemed to paralyze both their brains and the legs 
under them. Net in hand, they stood transfixed. 

Then the Lieutenant stepped into the open, mov- 
ing toward the signaller, who now first became aware 
of his presence. Big, powerful hulk that he was, the 
fellow stood lowering, obviously weighing resistance 
or attack, as he balanced his fish-spear ominously. 

At that instant, in the brush just behind him, ap- 
peared a strange vision — appeared the detached 
head of Allardyce, supported by its long gray whiskers 
even as the heads of the cherubim are supported by 
their several wings — Allardyce, who, lost to sight for 
a moment, had been prospecting on his own account 
and who now fancied himself the only discoverer of 
the poachers' awakening. 

"S'st! S'st! They're comin'! They're comin'!" 
His whisper rose like the whisper of steam from a 
locomotive, as, craning his neck over the sheep- 
laurel thicket, he beckoned the Lieutenant violently. 

Just as the words left his lips, he perceived the 
broad back of the poacher, not ten feet in front of 
him. His jaw dropped. His face bleached green in 
the dim dawn of the woods. Then the brush closed 
softly, softly over him, and before the enemy could 
fairly turn and locate the sound he had made, he was 
as invisible as a tree-toad and as harmless. 



NO STORY AT ALL 313 

Said the Lieutenant, walking quietly toward the 
angry giant: "State Police Officer. I arrest you." 
To which, after the briefest attempt to return his 
captor's gaze, the delinquent meekly submitted. 

"Now we will walk over and look at your outfit," 
remarked Lieutenant Price affably. 

Around the camp-fire lay a lot of fish, some speared, 
some netted; the ordinary camp supplies, two cases 
of beer, a more than liberal allowance of whiskey, 
and, end to the blaze, a pile of blankets of unusual 
size. 

Struck by the shape of the pile, the Lieutenant 
gingerly plucked one corner from the far end of the 
heap, lifted it a trifle and looked inside — on the face 
of a sleeper. Automatically his hand dropped. But 
the outline of that face — He lifted the corner again, 
for another brief survey of the nose and eyebrow. 

"Who is that fellow?" he inquired of his prisoner. 

"That fellow," growled the giant, "is my wife." 

Very quietly, very gently, the Lieutenant retreated, 
propelling his man back down the bank, and handing 
him over to the detail for safe-keeping. Then he set 
out on a side-trip of mercy, to make sure that Al- 
lardyce had effected his escape and was safely out of 
sight. 

Returning, satisfied, his eye encountered a new 
figure. High on the stream-bank, solitary, stood 
a young Napoleon gazing upon Waterloo. Arms 
folded, tight-breeched legs wide apart, hat over eyes, 
chin on breast, attention fixed in gloomy abstraction, 
he stood like an image of bronze. But his very soli- 
tude screamed for interruption and his contours could 



314 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

not be questioned. The Lieutenant, shying, swung a 
wide detour, to join the detail at the camp-fire. 

"How did you come into these woods?'' he de- 
manded of the prisoners. 

"By automobile." 

"Is the car coming after you?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"Six o'clock this morning." 

"Very well. We will take you three prisoners, the 
fish you have caught, and your fyke and fishing-traps 
in our car. Your own conveyance can take out your 
proper belongings later on. Now pick up the stuff. 
We'll be going." 

The two of the fyke-net hastened by obedience to 
acquire such merit as they might, and, laden with 
the proof of their sin, started ahead on the outward 
trail, closely guarded by the Trooper and his eager 
understudy. 

The Lieutenant remained a moment behind. The 
camp-fire must be quenched to the last spark; he 
intended his captive to perform that operation. Sul- 
lenly kicking it apart, the giant stamped it over with 
his great water-boots. Then, some points of red still 
gleaming, he snatched two bottles of beer from the 
case on the ground, knocked their heads off, nipped 
one neck between each thumb and forefinger, and, 
legs astride, stood with his chin to the sky, draining 
the first while he emptied the second at full arm's 
length upon the sizzling embers. The last spark dead, 
"March!" ordered the Lieutenant, and started his 
man in the wake of the vanguard. 



NO STORY AT ALL 315 

Then from the steep a hollow shriek, sobs, broken 
cries, loud weeping; Napoleon had found his voice, 
and it was no frail organ. 

"She's scared!" grumbled the giant, with scant 
evidence of sympathy. "Doesn't like being left 
alone." 

Said the Lieutenant: "Go over and tell her to be 
patient, to wait here quietly and take care of the 
stuff, till your car comes in for her." 

Which being accomplished and the wails hushed, 
the rear division fell in, and had soon covered the dis- 
tance to the waiting Troop motor. 

Then the Lieutenant took thought once again of 
poor old Allardyce, left all alone in those big, dark 
woods without a neighbor, with nothing but private 
authority to stiffen him — poor old Allardyce, of a 
certainty shaking in his shoes at this very moment. 
What if some suspicion did lurk in these rascals' minds 
that to him they owed their undoing? Then, indeed, 
were his fears well-founded. Something must be done 
to square him. For a moment the young officer con- 
sidered. Then he called to the man at the wheel : — 

"Run down to that watchman's shanty, where we 
stopped coming in." 

Every aperture was tight shut in the cabin under 
the rock; effect of a householder dead to the world, 
rounding out a ten hours' slumber. 

"Pound on that door. Wake him up!" roared the 
Lieutenant. "I don't leave these woods till I've 
shown light to that citizen." 

In a moment, propelled by the hand of the Re- 
cruit, out came the old man, wavering pitifully. The 



316 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

Recruit's gaze was very wide as he towered erect as 
a white-wood behind his convoy. But his ruddy 
young face was admirably stony. 

"Good! You're the man I found here last night," 
the Lieutenant bit out in tones of stinging wrath. 
"Now, listen and understand. The next time a State 
Police officer asks information of you, take care you tell 
him the truth and the whole truth, tell it quick, and be 
civil about it. This is your warning!" 

As the speaker finished, his off eyelid closed lightly. 

The old man proved no laggard in the uptake. 
"Yes, sir," he mumbled, sliding rapidly into a sulky 
slouch. 

And all the way out of the woods the Recruit 
wrestled in his own mind with a foolish illusion that 
he had seen the shadow of a quiver in the nigh eye of 
old Allardyce. 

"So we got home about an hour ago, put our guests 
in our safe-deposit box, dumped the exhibits under 
the roses, got a bath and a shave and breakfast — 
and now you have the story from A to Z inclusive." • 

"What's the next move with the people in the 
safe-deposit?" 

"J. P." 

"When?" 

"Now. Want to come along?" 

The Justice of the Peace holds his court in a little 
one-story pagoda, lately the shop of the village cob- 
bler. Perhaps the cobbler has died, or inherited 
means, or gone to Pittsburgh to make munitions. 
Anyway, his counter is bare, and his shelves, once 



NO STORY AT ALL 317 

dedicated to shiny-toed shoes, blacking, and laces, 
now display nothing more than a few odd volumes of 
old law reports, sustained considerably off the per- 
pendicular by a chunky "Compendium of Human 
Knowledge" and by a "Digest of the Laws of Penn- 
sylvania." 

The only furnishings in the room are the Justice's 
desk, four wooden chairs, a rocker, and a dim-chim- 
neyed kerosene bracket-lamp. An old sleigh-bell, 
suspended over the door on a swan's-neck of rusty 
tin, gives a feeble clink as the door opens, thereby 
flying in the face of the legend printed with many 
flourishes on a bit of green paper stuck to the opposite 
wall. 

"Keep Your Tongue Still," says the legend. 

The Justice, sitting at his desk, gravely returns 
the salute of the entering officers of the State Police. 
There are four of them now — the Lieutenant, the 
Trooper, the Recruit, and the First Sergeant of the 
Troop, who will conduct the prosecution. The Justice 
is rather a ponderous man, perhaps sixty-five years 
old, with a kindly, painstaking face and a big, honest 
nose bestridden by a pair of steel-bowed spectacles. 
His right sleeve hangs empty, pinned to his shoulder. 

The prisoners are now seated before him. The 
first two are middle-aged men; the third, the giant, is 
in his late twenties. One has the face of a drunkard, 
one is twin to an ox, and the last, more clearly cut, 
is in a primitive way handsome. Yesterday's beard 
bristles on their chins, and their thick, curly locks 
are tousled. Each man of them must weigh two hun- 
dred pounds, variously distributed; and in their stiff, 



318 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

yellow canvas hunting-suits and their big water-boots, 
they look colossi — hulking, shambling colossi, every 
one of them. Eyes on the floor, elbows on knees, they 
sprawl in their chairs, glumly contemplating the bat- 
tered tin pail planted in their midst. 

That pail is full of expiring fish, calling with their 
last gasps for vengeance! 

Attracted by the glimpse afforded through the 
uncurtained windows, a passing citizen stops, stares, 
and then abandons his errand for the entertainment 
of the moment. He pushes open the door, nods to the 
Justice and to the State Police officers, and silently 
vaults to a seat on the counter, where he settles him- 
self to observe, swinging his legs comfortably. 

Next the village clergyman and his theologue son, 
on their way to the post-office, are caught by the 
scene and enter. The divine bows first to the Justice. 
Then he goes over and claps the Lieutenant on the 
shoulder, as he grasps his hand. 

"Always at the good work, I see," he whispers, 
and ranges himself beside the officer. 

But the theologue, with a cheerful anticipatory 
grin, joins the leg-swinger on the counter. They say 
the lad already preaches good sermons and that he 
likes to draw his sub-texts from points nearer home 
than Palestine. 

A small boy slips in; a farmer, glancing down from 
the box of his Conestoga as he drives by, reins up, 
hitches his team to the maple tree at the door, and 
joins the assembly. Two interested citizens follow 
him and the room is full. Dead silence reigns, persist- 
ent, extraordinary. Is it the four stern young figures, 



NO STORY AT ALL 319 

grave of face, perfect of bearing, faultless of dress, 
wearing the sombre uniform of the State, who by 
their mere presence impose it? 

The trial opens. The First Sergeant, quiet, erect, 
soldierly, and utterly competent, stands at the Jus- 
tice's side. Thomas Stone, Henry Landulik, and Wil- 
liam Haddon are duly charged with "Using Unlaw- 
ful Devices in a Trout Stream." "Guilty," pleads 
Stone, of the drink-sodden countenance. "Guilty," 
pleads Landulik, twin to the ox. 

"Not guilty," growls Haddon the giant. 

The Lieutenant does n't even look bored. The 
First Sergeant calls him to testify. He tells his tale 
very briefly and with exceeding clarity both of state- 
ment and of diction. But the good old Justice, plod- 
ding after him with laborious pen, loses the thread 
after the first two phrases. Therefore, the officer, with 
respectful courtesy, goes back to the beginning and 
repeats his statement, four or five words at a time, 
pausing at each interval for the gray head bending 
over the stiff fingers to nod release. The story, as 
completed, presents all the facts essential to convic- 
tion, and presents them in the most terse and consecu- 
tive shape. 

"Do you wish to ask me any questions?" the Lieu- 
tenant inquires of Haddon. 

"No, sir." 

Then the First Sergeant calls the Trooper, who, 
duly sworn, testifies as ably as did his officer, while 
the Justice, prompted from point to point by the 
quiet suggestions of the First Sergeant in his capacity 
of Prosecutor for the State, asks questions whose 



320 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

answers again underscore the vital, incriminating 
facts. This complaint will never fail in a court of rec- 
ord on certiorari. 

Then comes the turn of the fledgling Recruit. 
Rigid, and blushing furiously under his superior's 
eyes, the lad yet shows how well he is learning his 
lessons. He tells his story like the clear thinker he is 
bound to make of himself, without one extra or re- 
considered word, and he answers all questions as 
straight and clear as a bell answers its clapper. 

The Lieutenant cannot repress a movement of 
pride. "What do you think of my little Recruit? " he 
whispers . ' ' Promising ? ' ' 

But now Haddon is being sworn — and takes the 
oath and fulfils the succeeding formalities with a cor- 
rect anticipation of requirements that tells its own 
story. Never, he testifies, notwithstanding — never 
before has he been under arrest in all his blameless 
existence. He went out with these his friends for a 
little lawful fishing. He fished with his hands and with 
a pole. He never saw or heard of a fyke. And when 
the fish stopped biting, he laid himself down by the 
fire and slept soundly till morning. At dawn he arose, 
went down to the stream and examined his poles; and 
was quietly returning to camp again, when, behold! 
the State Police jumped out from nowhere, with- 
out shadow of provocation, and inexplicably arrested 
him. 

Then came the turn of the Prosecuting Officer. 
Without any raising of the voice, without any extra 
emphasis or apparent pressure, the First Sergeant's 
whole being flamed subtly trenchant, poised to win. 



NO STORY AT ALL 321 

His questions, quiet and seemingly simple, drove 
sharp, direct, incisive, obviously aimed straight at 
some clearly sighted goal. His material feet assuredly 
remained on the same spot by the Justice's side, yet 
you could have sworn that with each close-clipped 
phrase, — there were not a dozen words in the longest 
of them, — he crowded the prisoner one pace farther 
toward the wall. Then came three bullet-like de- 
mands, three answering statements well foreseen — 
and bang! fell the trap — caught beyond struggle in 
a hopelessly incriminating lie. 

The Justice raises his eyes to the officer with the un- 
questioning confidence of a child. His spectacles slip 
down on his nose while, without a word, the First 
Sergeant turns to the shelf, takes down the law book, 
and lays it, open, before the magistrate, with his 
finger on paragraph and line. 

"In regard to Stone and Landulik," says he, "I 
would ask, they having pleaded guilty, that you im- 
pose a fine of twenty dollars upon each of them, for 
one violation of the law. In regard to Mr. Haddon, 
there are three counts — the using of an illegal device 
in a trout stream, the operating of a net without a 
metallic tag attached, and the using of a spear out of 
season in a trout stream. I ask twenty dollars on each 
charge, or a sixty-dollar fine." 

The Squire turned to the prisoners, addressing 
them. 

"Mr. Haddon," said he, "you are found guilty by 
the evidence given against you on three charges, and 
fined twenty dollars on each. If you are not prepared 
to pay the fine and costs, then you are committed to 



322 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

the jail of this County, one day for each dollar, or 
sixty days in jail. Stone and Landulik are fined 
twenty dollars and costs each, or twenty days in 



The First Sergeant, the while, had been observing 
the giant with a critical eye. Now he asked him a 
question aside, then addressed himself once more to 
the Justice. 

"Mr. Haddon wishes to reopen the case and to be 
allowed to change his plea from 'Not guilty' to 
'Guilty.' If you allow his request, I would ask that 
he pay the same fine as that laid upon the other two 
prisoners." 

"On your plea of 'Guilty,' Mr. Haddon, I fine 
you twenty dollars," the Squire responds, without 
hesitation. 

"Now," says the First Sergeant, dropping his State 
Prosecutor's manner, "what do you men choose, jail 
or pay?" 

The three look dolefully at their boots, speechless. 
At last Stone sighs out — "I ain't got no twenty 
dollars. Guess I hafter take jail." 

"S'pose so" — "Same here," groan the others. 

A pause. Not one sign of sympathy on the part of 
the powers of the law. 

"Well, Stone," observes the Lieutenant dryly, "if 
you and Landulik have both invested all your money 
in cash registers and corner property, I think the 
least that Haddon can do is to save you from jail. 
He keeps the saloon!" 

At which destructive home truth the masks of all 
three break down. They grin sheepishly. 



NO STORY AT ALL 323 

"Can I go home and get the cash for us?" asks 
Haddon. 

As the canvas-clad trio, now entirely restored to 
good-humor, lumbered off down the road under the 
shepherding care of the Trooper, I turned to the 
Lieutenant with a question or two. 

"Why did you threaten to come down so hard on 
the giant?" 

"Because he lied and tried to escape us; to show 
him that we were perfectly willing and ready to take 
our case to court if he desired it; to show that we will 
fight if they drive us to it; to remind them that we 
present no charge that we cannot sustain." 

"Why were you so easy with them all in the end?" 

"Because these three, as it happens, are not really 
bad men, and the penalty we asked was severe enough 
for them." 

"Why did you keep the woman entirely out of the 
matter? Was n't she equally guilty with the rest? 
And you never even spoke of her!" 

The Lieutenant's face took on a look of patient 
martyrdom. 

"Yes," said he, " I '11 answer that, too. It's like this : 
We figure that you should spare the women wher- 
ever it's possible. And that you can use sense. One 
in a family is enough to strike. You need n't rub it 
in." 

Later, down at Barracks, he took from his desk 
a sheaf of manuscript, the first examination papers 
of the newest probation men. The Lieutenant had 
framed the questions himself, to test the calibre of 
his lads. 



324 THE STANDARD-BEARERS 

"Look here," he said, singling out a sheet. "Per- 
haps this will help." 

Under the typewritten question, "What are the 
first essentials required of an officer of the Pennsyl- 
vania State Police Force?" stood the following words, 
in the loose, boyish script of the fledgling Recruit: 
"To know the law exactly. To do your whole duty 
and do it quick. To be gentle and courteous always. 
And never take any one's bluff." 




CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
U . S . A 



JUH 



*t 



